


My Boyfriend's a Murder Bot

by Fredegund



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Peter Parker, Brainwashed Peter Parker, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpool being Deadpool, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Wade Wilson, M/M, Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Wade Wilson, Slavery, Spidery Peter Parker, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Weapon X Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fredegund/pseuds/Fredegund
Summary: Wade Winston Wilson is ugly. His skin's inside out. It ripples and moves every second of every day, at constant war with the cancer. Vanessa put on a brave face for him when she first saw the changes, but it turns out even she can't stomach the sight for long. He's ugly and alone and nothing will ever be good in life again -If only that were his only problem.But Weapon X is at it again, under crisp new management, turning orphans into super slaves and bringing out the big guns to make sure nobody interferes this go around (namely one Pool comma Dead). So now, not only is Wade alone and ugly forever, but he's got a bit of a pest problem in the form of a black-clad murder-happy man spider with a collar around his neck and an unhealthy obsession with tying Deadpool up.So maybe it's not all bad...
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 209
Kudos: 1144





	1. Sad Sacks

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still writing my other fics, but sad!Wade and murderous!Peter won't leave me alone until I write them, too. I plan for this one to be much shorter than the others, so hopefully done faster. Here's to best laid plans...

1\. Sad Sacks

-

-

-

Vanessa can’t fake the sex.

It comes as a surprise. You’d think that out of anyone else in the world, Nessa would have been able to do it. Would have been able to pretend. A hot young sex worker should have been more than experienced in the art of faking an orgasm. She bumps uglies with some absolute trolls on the regular, and she – well, she is no troll. But come to find out, Wade Winston Wilson’s body repulses her. She can’t fake it. Can’t hide the disgust at the sight of his naked bod. Where once upon a time, her hands groped and gripped with a sure, steady pressure, they now tremble, grip lax, fingertips a hesitant, reluctant glide across the deep, rippling scar tissue, if she even touches him at all. No amount of kidding around and inside jokes and trips down memory lane can hide the fact that he just – well, grosses her out. Wade’s too observant. Too in love with everything about her not to notice all the differences between the glorious then and the horrible now. He’s got White and Yellow, too, who can’t seem to shut up about the truth he’s been trying not to admit.

Last night, he’d been going down on her in their quiet, dark bedroom, his bald head between her thighs.

She writhed like she used to, all breathy moans and squirming legs.

But when he glanced up with a slow, swirling tongue, her eyes gave up the game.

She used to look at him when they were together.

Her eyes used to be – hungry for him. Playful with him. A sparkle of pleasure, a warmth.

A home.

They used to look at each other like they could never get enough. Every time he saw her felt like the first time. A gravity that sucked him ever closer, that wrapped around the heart beating in his chest and yanked him toward her. He couldn’t get enough of her, the feel of her soft skin under him, around him, arms wrapped tight around his neck as she jumped on him and they made out like randy teens on the living room floor. He still looks at her that way. Appreciative. Hungry. In love, as much as an asshole like Wade could be. But she – but she –

They only ever sex in the dark, now.

And her eyes? Always clenched shut. Always closed.

Wade can’t remember the last time they made out. The last time he slipped his tongue into her mouth. The last time she jumped his bones and turned him inside out the right way. Now he’s just – his skin’s the thing inside out, and there’s no hiding how it repels her. You’d have to be batshit crazy _and_ blind to love him, now, and Nessa’s batshit crazy’s matched his all along, but she’s never been blind. Her eyes haven’t sparkled since that day he finally killed Francis, since he first showed her his new face. She’d gulped at the sight of him, that first day, but so quickly turned it around. So quickly said it’d be a face she’d happily sit on. But there’s been no happy sitting, and the hopeful yearning happiness of that first day back in her arms grows dimmer by the day. Every day he wakes up hoping he can turn this thing around.

But every day, they wake up on opposite sides of the bed. She curls into a pillow on the other side almost as soon as he cums. Says it’s too hot in the apartment to cuddle. She’s a pretty okay faker, he’s reasonably sure none of her johns would ever question the performance, but Wade knows that he hasn’t been able to get her off since they got back together. He’s been letting her fake it for months now, but it hurts too much to keep up the game.

It hurts too much to see her sparkle go out, little by little, every damn day.

It hurts too much to be alive, when he feels so damn dead inside.

“Hey, ‘Nes?” he says the morning after another failed cuddle, failed orgasm, failed eye contact.

He’s wearing the Deadpool suit, mask and all, in their kitchen.

She doesn’t protest the ensemble. Doesn’t ask him to take off the mask. Doesn't ask him why he wasn’t eating breakfast with her. Her hair’s still wet from her morning shower, draped over a lean, graceful shoulder, a big comfortable sweater hanging loose around her curves. Vanessa’s cradling a mug of steaming coffee and has her eyes focused on an open book in front of her, a plate of cooled pancakes with a nibble gone here and there beside the book. Wade’s no genius, but he’s pretty sure she hasn’t flipped a page in about eight minutes and twenty-two seconds. White and Yellow do their level best to keep track of the time for him, ever helpful assholes in his brain. Wade’s stomach hurts, his chest tight like a bruise. He’s not sure he’ll ever get the words out through the lump in his dry throat, through the despair that feels like acid eating away at his internal organs. And Wade can totally make that comparison – he’s had acid eat away internal organs before. Dead ringer for this feeling now.

She hums at him but doesn’t look up from the book.

It’s not Wade Wilson but Deadpool who reaches over the table and sets a gloved hand on the open page.

She finally looks across the table at him, her eyes following his hand up his arm and then landing on his masked face. She raises a delicate dark eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s up? I know you’re not a fan of books –”

[She’s calling you an idiot.]

[[You ARE an idiot. A gross, steaming pile of shit idiot. You never deserved her.]]

[Commercial break OVER.]

“’Nes,” he says. His voice cracks. He’s glad he’s wearing the mask because tears pool in his eyes and trail down his ruined cheeks when he blinks, and she’d pity stay. She’s _been_ pity-staying but pity cuts like serrated steel and he can’t let her do this anymore, she deserves better than – than a perpetual pity fuck. She shouldn’t have to fake it with her lover the way she fakes it for rich old bald guys.

[You’re ONE of those rich old bald guys, now.]

“What is it? I was getting to the good part.” She takes a sip of her coffee.

Wade shakes his head. “We – we can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what, Wade? Eating breakfast?”

“No – this!” He forgets about the book to gesture between them, his other hand tight on the edge of the table because he feels like he’s on the world’s shadiest roller coaster and if he doesn’t hold on tight to something, he’s going to splat. He’s suddenly very frantic for her unimpressed face to morph into real emotion, frantic for her to feel even a fraction of the inner turmoil that’s got his insides as wrecked as his outsides. Her pretty olive eyes widen at his outburst, then narrow when he says, “You’ve gotta stop pretending, you – you don’t love me anymore, ‘Nes. I get it – I. It’s understandable. I sure as shit can’t stand me either. I’d have left myself ages ago, but. I just – we can’t keep pretending everything’s fine with us. I think – I mean, I _know_ you deserve to be with someone who’s in your league. Someone you’re not ashamed of.” Wade grits his teeth to get this all out in the open, feeling raw, exposed with her eyes on him. He tries to sound unaffected, but his voice won’t stop cracking. “Someone better. You didn’t sign on for the shitshow that’s under this suit. I don’t – I want better for you.”

“Where’s this coming from?”

And well, there it is, isn’t it? The emotions. She’s hurt by his words, her face closing off to him, her eyes round and sad. She sets her coffee down and crosses her arms across her chest, almost like giving herself a hug. But she doesn’t deny any of it, does she? That one final stubborn shred of hope in his chest withers and dies right then and there, curls up and disintegrates. He swears he flatlines for a heartbeat, for two.

“You flinch away from me,” he says. She flinches in response, as if to prove him right.

“You have to turn the lights off when we have sex,” he says.

Now he’s listing it all off like a grocery list. He feels removed from it all, floating somewhere on the ceiling, watching this train wreck from an agreeable distance. Once he gets started, he can’t stop. Months of built-up hurts come pouring out like a fountain, the biggest pile of word vomit the merc with the mouth’s ever spewed. He throws it all in her face while she sits there in her sad little defensive pose, shoulders hunched, wide-eyed as she listens. He tells her he knows she’s been faking her orgasms. He knows she can’t keep her eyes open. They don’t cuddle anymore and it’s _not_ too hot for it, he’s been keeping the air conditioning on nonstop, she’s wearing a fucking huge ass sweater in the middle of a sweltering summer morning in New York because it’s so damn cold in here. _It is not too hot to cuddle_. They haven’t showered together since he got back. When he laid his head in her lap the other night on the couch, she angled her legs away, sat stiff and uncomfortable until he moved off her. She never touched his head. He’s been wearing the mask more often around the house and he’s noticed how much less tense she’s been because of it. He hasn’t eaten around her in over a week and she hasn’t questioned it once.

Vanessa doesn’t deny any of it. She does, however, cry.

“I loved you so much, Wade,” she tries to say, cajoling.

“You say it in the _past tense_.”

She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, glancing away from him. Even with the mask on, she doesn’t want to look at him. Deadpool stands up from their tiny little two-seater dining table. He’s got guns and knives strapped all around, his katanas on his back like a firm, comforting weight. He doesn’t own a single goddamn thing in this apartment that he’d brave these emotions to stick around for.

“You’re not denying anything I said,” Deadpool says, panda white mask eyes blank and unreadable. He’s crying underneath it, all hitched breaths and stinging eyes. He wants, more than anything, to rip the mask off and see her smile at his face. See her light up at the sight of it. Of _him_. But she wouldn’t. She hasn’t been and she wouldn’t now and it’s all – it’s all fucking Francis’s fault. That fucking –

“It’s because – it’s because you’re right. God, you’re right and I hate myself for it.”

He laughs, a sputtered laugh, a choked laugh. “’S not your fault… just. It’s. Not your fault.”

He doesn’t know what else to say.

“It’s painful,” she finally admits. “to look at your skin and know how hurt you had to have been. And the scars – they _move_.” She says it like Wade doesn’t already know that, like she’s revealing some huge revelation that’ll make all this make sense, hurt less, _something_. But Wade feels his scars moving every second of the day. They ripple and itch like crazy, sometimes, the mutation constantly fighting his cancer. Some days are way worse than others. Some days _hurt_ , all boiling, aching skin, every nerve on fire, exposed like a livewire. Some days it hurts even to have the suit press against him, or any other clothes, for that matter. But the cool air hurts, too, and there’s zero relief, nothing at all that can stop the relentless death march across every square inch of his cells. He kills himself on those days, away from the apartment. In a back alley alone, or in the backroom of Sister Margaret’s. Weasel hates it, though, all the blood spatter, so it’s usually the back alleys for him.

He thinks he’ll go find one of those now.

“When they move, it looks like – like bugs crawling under the surface of your skin. I get a little sick, sometimes,” Vanessa admits. She’s whispering it like a dirty confession and she still won’t look in his direction. Wade’s surprised he hasn’t fallen out already. He’s surprised his heart’s still beating through this unbearable squeezing pressure. At least she’s finally admitting the truth. It hurts, but – but it’s been hurting for months. He’s seen that sick look in her eyes when he gets too close, a little green around the gills. He’s seen the scrunched nose, the held breaths, the trips to the bathroom. Nothing she’s saying comes as a surprise.

But _fuck_.

“I’ll always love you.” His words are soft. A whispered confession of his own.

Vanessa cries.

He can tell this is hard on her. And honest to God, he doesn’t blame her. His skin is repulsive. It’s sick. When he’s in his hoodie in public, people stare, whisper, throw up. He saved a few kids from a burning building last month down in Queens, but part of his suit burned away in the process and made one of the kids pass out. The other one hurled chunks all over Deadpool’s boots. And the news? Shit, the news lit him _up_. Got a great view of his naked back and his face before he managed to hightail it out of there, and he’s pretty sure that video’s got hundreds of thousands of views on YouTube, with just as many insulting comments. Not that he’s looked or anything… okay so he’s totally looked. Done more than looked. He’s spent several restless nights pouring over mean comment after mean comment, sobbing into a bowl of fruit loops while White and Yellow both tell him how everybody’s right about him. Like Weasel said the first time he saw his face, it’s like an old avocado hate-fucked another old avocado, and Wade _will_ die alone. Except, oh wait, _he can’t die_ , so he’ll just live alone forever instead.

Which is worse. So. Much. Worse.

But he knows it’s true, now.

If Vanessa can’t stomach his ugly mug, nobody will.

-

-

-

After Wade kills himself, _twice_ , he takes a job out of the country and carves bad guys up like diced ham. And they are bad, too, _really_ bad. A whole organization into child trafficking and baby porn, and Wades has zero misgivings about wiping the entire shit stain company off the face of the earth. As a matter of fact, he throws himself into it wholeheartedly, with all the gusto of a fugly man who’s got nothing better to do with his immortality than slaughter assholes. It takes a few months to round them all up, to smoke out their hidey holes and scatter them like ants. He thinks this is the last of them, now, and he feels right at home in the middle of the carnage that’s become their last fully staffed warehouse.

“I give you money. I give you money!” one of them says, frantic, as he runs away.

Deadpool throws a knife into the back of his neck.

“Sweet of you to offer,” he says to the corpse, grinning, mask and suit covered in blood. “But I’m pretty sure I can just take it off your dead body, and also, I’m getting paid a pretty penny to take you out. But shhh, don’t tell my employer, ‘cuz I probably would have done this for free. You guys _suck_.”

Then he whirls around like a ballerina, unsheathing one katana midair to slice it through another guy coming at him from behind. He cuts him in the middle so his guts trail to the ground before he’s even fully dead, and he gargles up blood as he falls to Deadpool’s feet. Deadpool hops away from the gore and gets a torso full of bullets from some other idiots. The suit’s already riddled with holes, though, so he’s not too mad about more. His skin pushes them out faster than they went in. It feels like a bit of spring cleaning every time another of these fucks die, a nice casual outing with Bea and Arthur. He smashes two bad guy’s faces into one another then shoots them both in their assholes. Stepping on instead of around their moaning bodies, Deadpool waits until three more assholes charge at him from behind some crates before he shoots the moaning guys in the head. Their squishy bodies twitch under his boots. It’s been a long few months, and it’s a little exciting to be nearing the end of this shit show, so Deadpool makes quick work of the stragglers, leaping over crates and trying to shoot people in rhythm with White’s loud rendition of ‘walk like an Egyptian’ blaring in his brain.

[It’s falling down like a domino!]

[[oh ay oh!]]

Thirty-two kidnapped kids get rescued from the wreckage of the warehouse. He yanks open all the crates they’re hogtied in, pulling the wooden lids up with his bare hands so hard that nails go flying. So many wide, scared eyes peer up at him, dirty faces and torn clothes, flinching away from the flood of light. Deadpool makes sure to stay far away from their terrified faces while he calls the cops to come get them, convinced he’d just scare them even more. He follows behind the cops and makes sure the kids get actually rescued, makes sure there aren’t any baddies on the police payroll. It feels good to watch all the family reunions through his scope. _He_ did that. Pool comma Dead. The Merc with the Mouth. He might look like a trash fire. People might hate his guts. His life might be endless and shit and the most he’s got to look forward to for the rest of eternity is hookers pretending they don’t wanna run screaming at the sight of him for a marked-up, hefty price but –

[Where were you going with this again?]

“It does my cold dead heart good to see all these kiddos hug their parents.” Deadpool sighs.

[[That’s why we do it.]]

[But also – the violence was good.]

[[Ooh yeah, did you see how that guy crapped his pants right before we tore his arms off?]]

[See it? I SMELLED it.]

[[Whoever smelt it dealt it!]]

“He should have worn the brown pants,” Deadpool says, but that just reminds him of Francis and Weapon X, which of course spins all the way back to Vanessa. If he’d never met her, Deadpool wouldn’t exist. He’d have stayed Wade Wilson all the way to the bitter end, would have drowned himself in liquor before the cancer had the chance to drown him in other bodily fluids. Deadpool sets down the rifle and leans back on the rooftop, staring into the starry skies above. It’s tempting to stay away from New York for another eighty years, to wait until everybody he knows is dead and gone from old age. But he’s a little lonely. Dead guys make for crappy company. White and Yellow make for even _worse_ company.

[[We hate you too.]]

He could always start somewhere new. Start fresh. Move to a quiet little town where nobody knows him and pretend he’s a random shmuck burn victim whose only skillset involves blood and violence. It’s a nice thought. He could buy an old farmhouse. Renovate. Maybe he could meet a nice farmhand and oh, who’s he kidding? Deadpool’s not meant for a happy little life. Deadpool’s a social pariah in New York, for crying out loud. Home of the freaks! Quiet little towns would roast him for breakfast. He’d probably be run out with pitchforks.

Maybe he should go to Hollywood. Try Weasel’s idea – star in his own horror movies.

[Nah, we all know Ryan Reynolds can’t act for shit.]

[[His beard sucked in Amityville.]]

Well. What else is there to do?

“I’ve got way too much time on my hands,” Deadpool says. “Like, all the time. So much time that time’s becoming meaningless. The question is, how do I plan to spend my little slice of eternity? Taking jobs like this forever? Sending shit stains to the not-so-great beyond? Am I doomed to think about Vanessa for the rest of this crap fest?”

That’s the real question.

He can’t go back to New York. He’d probably end up stalking her. Truly pathetic. But he can squat with Blind Al again. Maybe she can teach him how to knit socks. He’s at the late stage of loneliness where he’s even starting to think about Blind Al’s old lady pants smell with gnawing fondness. He kind of wants to mope at Sister Margaret’s. Get wasted off Weasel’s cheap booze and feel like himself again. But it still feels like a bad, bad idea to go back. Having Vanessa in close proximity sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. He shouldn’t go back.

Deadpool stares up at the night sky. It’s such a different view from the one in New York.

There’s way more stars on this side of the earth.

[That’s not how it works.]

Deadpool is – unhappy. So, he shoots himself in the face.

The screen fades to black.

-

-

-

When he gasps back to life, a flock of birds are pecking at his corpse. He flails his arms to get ‘em to scatter, his whole body on fire. Not literally, although that’d be a hoot. No, apparently, he stayed dead longer than he usually does, because the sun’s a harsh ball of death above him and he’s pretty sure he smells like cooked meat under the heavy black and red leather. The mask is stifling, and he can’t take in a full breath, but his lungs will just have to adjust to diminished air capacity because there’s no way he’s taking this thing off. Possibly ever again. Deadpool waits until his blurry vision improves, waits until his legs can hold his weight. Christ, but he needs a drink. Not even alcohol, either, but cool, crisp water. When’s the last time he drank water? His shriveled-up insides scream in protest as he pulls himself to a shaky, wavering stand. Deadpool gets his feet back under him. He stretches.

Then, well, he’s got nothing better to do than go home.

New York isn’t home, exactly, but it’s the closest he’s got these days. By the time he tromps through the heavy steel door to Sister Margaret’s, the dark and dingy stale smoke atmosphere is lively and full of familiar faces. His eyes go straight to the dead pool, but it doesn’t look like anybody’s croaked yet. How is it that a room full of bumbling mercenaries and criminals can all manage to keep themselves alive this long? Weasel’s behind the bar, ever faithful as he scrubs a glass with a dirty dish rag. As soon as he sees Deadpool, he raises the dirty glass to him in a mock salute.

“Heard you saved a bunch of kids,” Weasel says.

Deadpool grunts, plopping into a stool, elbows on the bar. “Killed a bunch of adults, too,” he agrees. “Shit, that was fun. I think I’ve earned a break, though. And next time, I’d kinda like to go somewhere tropical. Algeria had its moments, but shit is it _hot_ there. Do bad guys ever pick tropical breezy tourist destinations to set up shop? It’s almost like they’re against fun. What about Hawaii? I hear the crime rate there sucks, and it’d be cool to get in on the Hawaii Five-0 action before they close up shop for good. Also, pineapples, amirite?”

Weasel rolls his eyes. He reaches under the bar and comes up with a perfectly sliced piece of chilled pineapple, which he adds like a garnish to a mug full of cheap beer. He slides it over to Deadpool, but Deadpool stops its trajectory with a careless elbow and bumps it back the other way. Weasel catches it, frowning. “What, my beer not good enough for you anymore, mister bigshot criminal killer?”

“Not thirsty,” he lies.

“You don’t drink booze because you’re _thirsty_ Wade, what the fuck.” Weasel’s frowning with his whole face, now, eyes narrowed behind his big round glasses.

“I didn’t come here to be interrogated.”

“Okay, well then why’d you come here? Because this is a bar and you’re refusing alcohol.”

“I need a hooker,” Deadpool declares.

“Don’t we all?” Weasel retorts.

“No, I mean a special hooker. Like a sugar baby. That’s a thing, right? There are websites.”

Weasel’s face scrunches into obvious disgust. He takes a swig of the mug he’d offered to Wade and says, “Aren’t you, like, married to a hooker already? I doubt Vanessa’s gonna be cool with you soliciting innocent sugar babies online.”

The ache of hearing her name slices right through Deadpool’s chest. Metaphorically. He thumps his head onto the bar and moans out loud, hiding his head under the cover of his arms. This is his fault, of course. He never mentioned the breakup to Weasel. He’s never mentioned it out loud at all. Once he does, it’s real. Once everybody else knows… it’s _real_.

“You suck, Weas,” he mumbles into the hard surface his face is smooshed against.

“In your dreams, maybe. Gross.”

Deadpool can’t hold it in anymore. He finally blurts out the whole sorry thing, crying into his mask. How Vanessa couldn’t stand the sight of him, how they broke up, how he’ll be alone forever, how he’s never taking the mask off again. How his skin aches and itches and _writhes_ and ripples, how the cancer feels like fucking snakes under his skin, he’s in the grossest meat bag, he can’t stand another second in this fucked up body, he doesn’t belong in it, he’s stuck. Deadpool needs to die, why can’t he die, please let him just die –

“Jesus, Wade.” There’s something cool and wet pressing against his arm, insistent. Deadpool bats it away and the smell of spilled alcohol fills the air, liquid sloshing out of the mug Weasel won’t stop trying to pawn off on him. “Drink this you asshole, you’ll feel better.”

“I can’t drink through the mask!” he wails.

“All right, that’s it.”

There’s shuffling and footsteps, a glass slamming onto the bar. Deadpool keeps his head buried and is too deep inside his own brain to notice it, sobbing out his woes to his favorite barkeep. He doesn’t realize Weasel isn’t even there to listen anymore until he’s hauled off the stool by two burly, sweaty guys. If he weren’t so damn depressed, he might have cared. As it is, he’s sobbing and crying into the mask, hanging limp as they drag him away from the stool, around the bar, and into the backroom. They toss him over Weasel’s musky, mustard-colored old couch. Wade smooshes his face into the cushions with his legs hanging off the side at an uncomfortable angle, idly wondering how unsanitary this seat is and how many uglies Weasel’s bumped back here on this very spot, but who the fuck cares about germs, anyway?

“Take off the fucking mask and drink this now.”

Weasel’s suddenly there. He grabs Deadpool by the shoulder and tries to haul him into an upright position. Weas is weak as fuck, though, and Deadpool doesn’t much want to be in an upright position. It takes Weasel three tries and both arms to turn the black and red clad merc around. He’s huffing and puffing, out of breath and out of shits to give, when he physically shoves hard liquor into Deadpool’s lax grip. Weasel has a very serious frown on his face, his brow furrowed like an angry beaver from the 70s. Or something. Deadpool holds the drink, stares down at it, blank and empty. He shakes his head.

“I’ve already seen your face,” Weasel says. “It’s gross, but – eh, this whole self-pity thing you got going on is even _more_ disgusting, and I honestly didn’t think that was possible. Pull yourself together, dude. Get wasted. Stay wasted. You’ve got a long, long life ahead of you and if you’re already this fucked up? I dunno man, just drink the damn booze. I’m not a therapist.”

Deadpool feels like crying again. “I can’t even kill myself, Weas. I’m useless.”

Weasel throws his hands up. He walks to the other side of the small space and grabs a closed crate, drags it all the way back to the couch and spends a few mopey, pathetic minutes prying it open with a crowbar. Deadpool sniffs, watching the bartender pull out his good stuff, imported shit he’s been squirreling away for a rainy day, probably. He must think today is an awfully rainy day because he pulls out the entire stash and pops one open for Wade. Deadpool drops the mug of the cheap stuff Weasel had wrestled into his hand earlier, lets it drop to the floor and shatter into a loud blast of glass and alcohol across his boots. He takes a deep breath, which isn’t that easy right now through all the snot, and quickly yanks the mask up so his mouth and nose are exposed, leaving it on halfway so it still covers his bald ball sack head. He watches Weasel for a reaction, but the man doesn’t flinch or make the usual disgust-face. The asshole’s trying to make him feel better, Deadpool guesses. It won’t work. Nothing’s going to ever feel good again. Nothing’s going to –

“Is this aviation gin??” Deadpool eyes the glass bottle Weas forced into his hand, turning it this way and that.

That son of a bitch.

“Damn straight.” Weasel looks smug. “You’re gonna drink and I’m gonna drink, and we’re gonna forget our own motherfucking names, you feel? No more of this sad sack business. It gives me hives.”

Deadpool’s eyes well up all over again. He can’t win tonight.

“Yeah,” he says, soft and reverent. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, buddy.”

“ _Hives, hives, hives_. Shut up and chug!”


	2. Weapon X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments! It's a surreal feeling to have people read things I write. Makes me feel connected to the world. Hope everyone's being safe and staying positive. Don't feel alone!

2\. Weapon X

-

-

-

Deadpool’s spent the last three weeks being productive as hell, and it helps.

Weasel gets him wasted five nights straight. He’s pretty reasonably sure that he dies of a pickled liver somewhere around night three. He also crashes with Blind Al again, goes on a bit of a coke bender. They do knit some socks. Blind Al sucks at it. Her socks are nothing more than lumpy mounds of yarn that fit too tight around the ankles and cut off all circulation in her old lady feet. Every time she pokes herself with a knitting needle, she lets out a string of curses that help stave off the heady depressed feeling that’s ever lingering over Deadpool’s shoulder. Makes him feel a little less alone. And also – in comparison to Blind Al, he’s _awesome._ Does wonders for the ol’ self-esteem to hang around with someone who can’t even knit socks or, yanno, _see_. What a loser. Deadpool’s discovered a new calling. His socks turn out _fantastic_ , if he says so himself, warm and cozy and cute as hell. He knits some green and purple Hulk socks and wears them with his baby blue crocs when he’s beating off. He also knits a pair of red and black Deadpool socks for Blind Al because he feels sorry for her, extra roomy for her swollen tree stump feet, and he’s considering moving on to scarves next.

Maybe he’ll even knit a full body Deadpool costume.

It’d be a helluvalot more comfortable than the leather.

He’s heading back from a late-night grocery run, whistling, eager to cook something that’s not frozen shit waffles for once, when he spots a shady blacked out van parked at the mouth of an alleyway on the other side of the street. The doors to the trunk are spread open and two men sit in the front looking a bit too much like rando grunt bad guy extras from any action movie ever. Deadpool lives in a shady part of town – he’s used to looking the other way for drug busts and drug runs and any other drug related crime. Hell, he’s got a supplier of his own, so who’s he to judge? Drugs take the edge off the pain. He’s even seen a few pickpockets nick a wallet here or there, and that’s fine. Everybody’s gotta make a living somehow, and none of the people they target look like they’d starve without their wallets, but pretty much all the pickpockets look like they would, so. The only time he’s stepped in since he’s lived with Blind Al was that one time rookie robbers tried stealing from his favorite mom and pop deli down on the corner. If they’d had to close down because of it, Deadpool would _not_ have been a happy camper.

But tonight, this doesn’t feel like some innocent drugs exchanging hands.

It feels a little like a kidnapping.

Deadpool continues whistling as he comes to a stop on the sidewalk opposite the van and stares at the guy behind the wheel through his mask, white eyeholes narrow, two bags full of groceries clutched at his side in his gloved hands. The van’s idling, and the grunt in the passenger seat looks down at his watch, says something to the driver. Deadpool can’t pick out what he said, but he does pick out the all-too familiar sound of flesh smacking into flesh, a pained yelp and then abrupt silence. Then comes the sound of a body being dragged against concrete, the shuffle of boots in the alley. Deadpool jaywalks across the street with his groceries and comes up behind a third man who’s heaving an unconscious teen into the open doors of the van, grunting at the effort and red in the face. He’s all belly, and Deadpool can smell the dude’s musk through his mask from a few feet away. He’s pretty sure this isn’t gonna go well for these three low-level grunts, but he’s also reasonably sure he’s about to miss the midnight airing of The Golden Girls and there should be hell to pay for that offense alone.

The teen’s got a cut at his hairline, dirt on his face and clothes. There’s a ratty, worn backpack still strapped to his back.

Deapdool comes up behind the struggling baddie, the rustle of his grocery bags switching hands loud in the darkness, and when the bad guy jumps and turns to look behind him, the unconscious teen boy hanging halfway out the van still, Deadpool grins at the shocked horror on the man’s round face and waggles his fingers in a cute hello wave.

“Whatcha guys doin’?” he asks him.

He splutters, yelling for the two in the van, body heaving as he tries to get the boy the rest of the way inside. “It’s Deadpool, it’s Deadpool, we gotta get – shit, that hurt!” He falls on top of the boy he’d been trying to kidnap, moaning from where Deadpool kicked him in the shin. Deadpool sets his groceries down on the sidewalk and then hauls the man off the boy by the back of his shirt, sighing when he hears the slow motor of an automatic window being rolled down. The guy in his grip flails like he’s been stuck through, hands scrambling for Deadpool’s arm, trying to shake him off. But he’s fat and weak and Deadpool’s a little amused by the show. Passenger seat guy sticks a handheld gun out of the open window, but he’s clearly not a good aim from that angle. Well, unless he was _trying_ to hit his fat friend, anyway. Bullet straight in the gut for him. A few more shots land somewhere on the sidewalk beside the van. One hits Deadpool’s shoulder so at least he got one right, but man does he _suck_. It’s like he’s shooting blind, or maybe he’s just too panicked, because he’s yelling something in Spanish to the driver and then the van’s tires peel out, squealing against the asphalt as they beat a hasty retreat. The van’s open back doors flap behind it and Deadpool shoves the fat guy out of the way just in time to catch the boy they were trying to kidnap before his head could smack against the pavement.

“You’re forgetting your potential murder victim!” Deadpool yells after them. “And your fat friend!” He glances over at said bleeding fat friend, who’s currently holding his hands over his bullet wound and appears very pale. His eyes are wide and teary, and his breathing is labored. What a rookie. “Your friends are a little flaky, huh?”

The van’s got a license plate. Deadpool memorizes it before they’re completely out of sight, marveling at the stupidity. It’s even got one of those tiny lightbulbs above the plate so it’s visible at night.

He sets the boy down on the sidewalk, gentle as he feels for a pulse.

Yep, just out cold. Good.

Now then.

Deadpool returns to the bleeding dude and kneels down beside him. He’s sweaty and pale and looks like he’s about to pass out, which Deadpool only cares about because dead guys don’t talk, and this guy owes him some lip service. But he’s killed people on accident like this before, roughing them up too much before he can get ‘em to give up some exposition, so Deadpool tries very hard to keep his hands to himself and not touch yet. Good Deadpool. “All right sasquatch, I’m gonna need the ol’ evil villain monologue before you croak. Why were you and your lousy friends trying to stuff this unconscious, scruffy teenage boy into the back of your shady ass stereotypical villain van?”

“Arghhh,” the guy moans and shakes his head.

“What’s that?” Deadpool says. His mask eyes are wide and curious. “I’m afraid I don’t speak pirate. Although, I really do need to learn. Might make my conversations with SHIELD go better.”

The guy doesn’t seem to find him funny, glaring at him through his pain. Some people just have zero sense of humor. He coughs and his eyes are glassy, pained. He’s obviously never been shot before. “You –” the man pants out between ragged breaths, “– got away from us once, but, ahh, but you’re – you’re not gonna win a-again, f-freak.”

“Excuse me, but when have I ever won before?”

Also, playing the pronoun game? Total dick move. Deadpool resolves not to feed into the game by asking who ‘us’ was supposed to be. But damnit, he really wanted to know!

The man grimaces, his whole big body trembling, hands pressing against his stomach.

“And I’m pretty sure I’ve never had to get away from anybody before, either. Do you got the wrong Deadpool? I know I look like a lot of other supers out there, but the only reason I chose red is because my blind friend told me it’d hide the blood, and it _does_. Like magic!” He makes jazz hands in his red and black getup, like a magician revealing the trick, then he clicks his tongue. His white mask eyes blink down at the dude. “Too bad you didn’t get that memo. Bet you’ll never wear white to a gun fight again, though, amirite?”

“Y-you’re gonna get yours, Wilson.”

And ooh, tough guy knows his real name. Deadpool leans his face closer. “I’m gonna get my what? Tacos? Booze? Ooh, am I gonna finally get to meet Betty White in person? Am I gonna get to shake hands with Captain America?” He slaps a hand down on the dude’s stomach, then, grinning when he groans and curls up. It gets some blood on his glove but it’s totally worth it. “C’mon man, out with it. What’s my prize, here? The suspense is killing me! Actually, I don’t care. What I do care about is why you and your buddies were trying to steal a kid off the street. And trust me, if you don’t tell me, I’ll just find out somewhere else, so you’re pretty much a pointless plot thread who’s gonna die in like two paragraphs. Hate to break it to you –”

“God, do y-you ever sh-shut –”

“Up? I'm the merc with the mouth, dude. Didja think I got that name for my superior blowjobs?”

The whole patient act is getting a little stale at this point. The dude probably would have lived through the bullet wound in the gut if he’d gotten to a hospital in time. But Deadpool’s milk is probably souring and he’s already missed his show. Too quick to anticipate, Deadpool lashes a hand out and catches the dude around his neck, hauling him up choking and shoving him full-body into the nearest storefront window. The window doesn’t break, luckily, but his head hits against the shatterproof glass hard enough to knock a few screws loose. His bloodied hands are slippery as they grasp onto Deadpool’s wrist, flailing all over again, eyes bulging, pudgy legs kicking the air as they dangle an inch off the ground. Deadpool gets his face close to the guy’s and chokes him a little harder.

“I’m about to let go of your throat so you can talk, random shmuck,” he says, whisper quiet, breath hot in the mask. “When I do, you’re gonna wanna talk. If you don’t talk, I’d be happy to shove my whole fist up your ass and punch all the way out through the bullet hole in your stomach. But don’t worry, you’ll live just long enough to feel my hand molesting your insides something _most_ unpleasant. How lucky are you! I usually save the molestation for date three. Blink twice if you’re on board with the talking part of what I just said. Three times if you’re feelin’ frisky.”

He’s shaking like a leaf. His wet, bloodshot eyes blink down twice hard and then keep wide-eyed and forcefully open.

Deadpool loosens his grip.

And the guy – talks.

-

-

-

After that, things get a little crazy.

He goes straight to Sister Margaret’s with his groceries. His milk’s not just souring, but it’s practically empty with a bullet hole dead center. Asshole bad-aim guy is going to _die._ His other groceries are soaked in milk, and he wishes he’d bought cereal instead of produce. This is why he should never cook anything healthy. When he drops the sodden, disappointing sacks on the bar, he immediately gets into a fight with Buck, who’s usually a calm, gentle fat Gandalf but who doesn’t much like getting punched in the face. Deadpool punches him in the face because he’s the closest giant around, and he really needs to punch somebody in the face.

Weasel yells at him and then yells at Buck even while they’re wrestling, but Deadpool just flips him off in between punches. Everybody else is yelling, then, too, egging them both on. Wade gets tossed into a table, which of course breaks under the force. Screw Weasel for buying the cheapest furniture. He ducks down before Buck can grab him again and spins the man’s legs out from under him. He goes down so hard the liquor cabinet shakes along the wall behind the bar. Deadpool scrambles for a piece of the wooden table he’d crashed into and whacks the side of Buck’s head in.

When he stands, triumphant but honestly not feeling any better, his side and head aching, blood on his covered chin from a split lip that’s already healed over, Weasel hurries to check if Buck’s alive. Still nobody’s won the dead pool.

“I coulda told you that,” Deadpool says to Weasel over the loud chorus of boos. “Didn’t wanna kill the guy. Just – needed to maim somebody a little.”

“What the hell was that, man?” Weasel hollers at a few regulars to come haul Buck away, then rounds on Wade, very obviously furious with his frowny face and stern eyebrows. Deadpool just grunts and demands alcohol as he throws himself onto a barstool and the chaos gets cleaned up behind him. Weasel doesn’t make a move toward any alcohol, just stands there staring at him with his permanent scowl.

Deadpool whacks a hand on the bar. “I need a drink, stat!”

“You’re not getting shit until you tell me what that was. Christ, you’re like an adult-sized baby throwing a really violent, borderline murderous tantrum half the time. What pissed in your cheerios now?”

“Weapon X, Weas. Weapon X fucking pissed in my cheerios.”

Weasel freezes. “… like, recently? Didn’t you kill them all?”

“No, I did not kill them all!” Deadpool yells. Weasel flinches back, wide-eyed, and the bar goes silent. Then Wade groans and slumps forward and the noise gradually picks back up again. Two guys on stools nearby take their drinks and move to a table. Probably for the best because Wade wants to bash more faces in and he’s not feeling too picky right now. He yanks a knife out of his belt and fishes into the wet grocery bag for the half-gallon of milk, pokes the knife into the bullet hole and slices the top of the carton away so he can at least drink what little’s left in the bottom. As he works, he says, “Apparently the shit group Francis managed wasn’t all of them. I cut off one head, but I guess they’re like Hydra now or something because there’s more _fucking_ heads and I _swear_ Weas, this time I’m gonna exterminate ‘em. I’m gonna rip them all into itty bitty pieces so small I’ll turn their remains into glitter bombs and mail them all to Logan.”

“That’s terrifyingly specific.”

Weasel pours him a drink. Then he pours himself a drink.

They don’t even bother clinking glasses.

Weasel groans. “Christ, how’d you find out about this?”

Deadpool tells him the whole thing. They’ve got low-level grunts scouting out shadier parts of town for runaways and orphans, hobos, people nobody will miss or even think to report missing. Cancer patients just don’t seem to do it for them anymore. Or maybe this is another division of the organization, one that deals with healthier subjects. Either way, they’re in New York. Either way, at least two of the assholes sped away into the night, and now Weapon X knows that Deadpool knows about them. If he’d had any inkling at all that Weapon X still existed or that _they_ were Weapon X, those guys would have been minced meat by now. He feels – _itchy_ just thinking about how he let two of them go. God, but his skin aches. At least he got the license plate.

And, really?? Just, really??

Weapon X must be desperate to hire idiots like those guys. Like, truly desperate.

And they knew him by name! The fat one knew he’d gotten away from Weapon X… so why didn’t they know where Deadpool lived? Why didn’t they know his neck of the woods enough to, oh, I don’t know, _avoid it_? Because now that Deadpool knows they’re still out there, of course he’s going after them. Did they not see him as a threat or something? Not care if he found out they were back in business? He feels a little insulted. Nobody should want a crazy masked killer for hire who literally can’t die on a never-ending personal vendetta to wipe out their entire organization. Right?

And here he thought Weapon X was dumb with _Francis_ at the wheel.

Whoever they got to replace him must be two French fries short of a happy meal.

“I’ll put out feelers, see what I can find out,” Weasel says. He scrubs the same spot on the bar with a wet dish rag, just scrub-scrub-scrubbing. Wade uses a crayon from one of his pouches to write down the license plate he’d gotten from their vehicle on a napkin and hand it over. Weasel takes it, heads to the back to make some calls, leaving Wade at the bar. Deadpool proceeds to get wasted – again, though this time on the cheap crap – and when Weasel comes back saying he’s looking into it, Deadpool details in vivid technicolor every way he’s going to slaughter Weapon X employees and find every last person they’ve taken. Every last one left alive, anyway. They sell them, right? After the people they nab finally mutate, Weapon X sells them to the highest bidder to be used for hired muscle, to be used for war.

At least, that’s what Francis told him, the smug bastard.

_You know the funniest part of this? You still think we're making you a superhero. You. A dishonorable discharge. Hip-deep in hookers. You're nothing. Little secret, Wade. This workshop doesn't make superheroes. We make super-slaves. We're gonna fit you with a control collar and auction you off to the highest bidder. Who knows what they'll have you doing? Terrorizing citizens, putting down freedom fighters. Maybe just mow the occasional lawn._

“There’s an idea,” he mutters, slurring a bit, grumpily tipsy. “Should buy a mower and just – just mow ‘em all dead. Kneecap ‘em, get ‘em down, then just turn that fucker on and drive over their screaming stumps. Like that one scene in that one really horrible B movie, what was it –”

“Dead Alive?” Weasel suggests.

Wade tries to remember it. “Nah, not that one, less zombies –”

“Final Destination?”

“The only thing I remember about Final Destination were those _tanning beds_ , yeesh –”

“The Lawnmower Man?”

Wade blinks at Weasel, uncomprehending and a little pissed off. His head feels stuffed full of cotton, throbbing in sync with his pulse. “Are there really this many movies where somebody gets run over and pulver-sized by a lawn mower? Really?”

Weasel shrugs. “It’s not as original as you might think.”

“Well then I’m definitely not doing it now.” Even to his own ears, he sounds petulant. Then it finally dawns on him, and he jumps, knocking a few of the empty mugs over on the bar beside him. “The Happening! It was The Happening. What a shit movie. Totally unrealistic… I can’t remember what was even happening, it was just this jumbled _mess_. Some kinda pandemic, or aliens? Was it aliens? _Why can’t I remember_?”

Weasel responds, but Wade’s doesn’t bother making out the words. He just kinda watches the bartender’s lips move. He’s not actually _that_ drunk – his body is already metabolizing, already sobering, even while he just sits here – but it’s hard to actually care about anything right now besides going after Weapon X. They’re the lowest of the low. Nobody even has to hire him for this gig. If Wade can’t have happiness, or passion, or love, or, shit, even casual touches, then he’s damn sure at least gonna have the satisfaction of ripping Weapon X out by their roots. It’s almost closing time, by now. Most everyone else is already gone. Weasel kicks him out along with the few other stragglers, telling him he’d be in touch about the license plate and anything else he happened to find out, all casual confidence. They don’t call him Weasel for nothing – if anybody can find shit out, it’s him. Deadpool slides his mask down over his chin, leaves his groceries for the trash heap, decides right then and there to _never_ tell Weasel how much faith he’s got in him, and heads home.

Or, well, he tries.

But he’s walked less than a block when he feels it. Eyes on him. He tries to glance around all subtle-like, but he can’t see anybody else around. It’s after three in the morning – most of the windows he passes are shuttered, dark, quiet, not a soul out walking the shady side of town at this unholy hour. A few cars pass while he’s walking, but none of them are setting off these alarm bells, none of them slow or seem even remotely interested in him. But somebody’s – it definitely feels like somebody’s eyes are on him. He’s been around the block long enough to recognize what it feels like to be the center of someone’s attention. It’s usually never for good reasons.

[Like, they’re usually looking ‘cuz you’re gross.]

[[And you scare them.]]

[Or ‘cuz they wanna kill you.]

[[Just once, I’d like to be noticed for our sparkling wit and rock-hard abs. We’ve earned this physique!]]

[Earned the crusty scab-alligator-avocado skin, too.]

[[Screw you, when we’re wearing the suit, we’re _beautiful_.]]

“You really think so?” Deadpool whispers, hopeful.

[[Only when we’re wearing the suit and completely hidden from view!]]

The token backpedal can’t take away the surging satisfaction of Yellow calling them beautiful. He feels a little warm inside, his steps a little lighter despite the perv tailing them. Without thinking about whoever might be listening in, no longer bothering with a whisper voice, Deadpool says a firm and excited, “No take backs! I heard you loud and clear and I’ll take it to the _grave_. Yellow thinks we’re beautiful.”

He sings the last sentence, stretching it out. Yellow whines low in the back of his mind, White laughing at them both.

[[But you’ll never go to the grave!]]

“Exactly!”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts whistling, and he keeps walking straight when he comes to the intersection he’d usually be turning down. Best not lead somebody home where Blind Al would absolutely not aim her gun the right way. Her weak old heart’s not up to middle of the night shootouts. The tingly spine feeling of being on somebody’s radar follows him as he goes. It doesn’t let up, even when he turns down an alleyway to take a shortcut, which, _weird_. The narrow space leaves no room for stalkers, at least not without revealing themselves. Wade stops to stretch because it lets him get a better look not just around but also _up_. If somebody is following him through this alley, then they’re either a mutant who can turn invisible or they’re traveling by rooftop. Sirens sound from far away, a distant streak of alarm in the night. In the city, it’s almost more concerning not to hear sirens at any given moment, though, so Deadpool ignores it, listening closely for sounds a little closer to home. But whoever it is, they’re silent. The hazy night sky above reminds Deadpool of the stars he’d seen on his last mission, cracked brick buildings towering over him on each side noiseless and vacant of all movement. Shadow blankets the tops of the walls, too dark for Deadpool to pick up anything, but somebody’d have to be positively inhuman to be lingering in those high hard-to-reach spots.

Still, Wade could _swear_ he’s being watched.

Or maybe paranoid? Has he gotten crazy enough for that? Losing his edge, maybe?

[Considering the fact that you talk to us, I’d say you might be crazy enough for that.]

[[I’m suddenly craving tacos. Wanna go get tacos?]]

Deadpool mostly just wants to go home and sleep. Maybe he really is going crazy. Then again, he’s usually right about these sorts of feelings, his instincts for killers pretty foolproof. Wade settles his back against one of the alley walls and slides down it, making himself as comfortable as possible beside a stale, rusty dumpster. He doesn’t bother pulling out any weapons, although he does unstrap Bea and Arthur from his back and prop them up beside him, hiding them from immediate sight between his body and the dumpster so that he can lay on his back without them digging in. If his new buddy does come out from whatever hidey hole he’s playing peekaboo in while Wade’s sleeping, what’s the worst that can happen? He gets killed? Whoop dee fricking doo. It turns out that nothing’s very scary when nothing can kill you. He’s tired, and Blind Al’s too fragile a roommate to risk bringing whatever this hair-on-end feeling is home with him. If somebody’s skilled enough to get the drop on him, this seems like as good a place as any for a quick death nap. He hasn’t had one of those in, like, a week.

“If you’re gonna kill me,” he calls out into the darkness. His voice seems to echo, the complete absence of another presence sharp and stifling in the dead of night. “At least take a girl out to dinner first. I’ve got –” he yawns, then, and curls up. “– standards, yanno. Otherwise, have fun watching me sleep, Edward Cullen.”

So Deadpool cuddles up to a stinking pile of trash in a dark alley and, well – he goes to sleep.

-

-

-

Spider clings to the wall above the red and black clad mercenary, eyes bright and curious behind the specialty googles that conceal the way they reflect the light in the darkness. Deadpool should not be able to sense him. He’s quiet, and fast, and he’s good at hiding in plain sight. He’s garbed in the standard stealth mission getup, all black lightweight Kevlar, googles that limit his eyesight but also completely hide how his eyes glow an unnatural blue sheen in darkness. He’s never been sensed before, at least, not until it’s too late to do anything about his presence. But he’s got the feeling that not only has he been sensed, but he’s just been _spoken_ to. Well, maybe. His name isn’t Edward Cullen, but – but there’s nobody else around. Nobody else trailing this human. He would sense it if anyone else were here. So, why? Nobody usually speaks to him. Spider is an object in the room, a background ornament the humans talk around or about. Never _to_. Not in a soft, conversational tone like the one Deadpool just used.

Conversely, Deadpool also seemed to talk to himself. Perhaps he'd been doing that again. That seemed more likely.

Spider hangs there, hands and feet sticking to the wall, his four other spider legs held close to his back. He hangs there until Deadpool falls asleep, watching his chest rise and fall, watching as his body relaxes and twitches in sleep, hears his heart rate even out and the quiet, soft exhales that move the man’s mask up and down, up and down. There’s a rhythm to it that captivates. Spider finds himself relaxing as his senses hone in on his target.

He thinks about the mission. The orders given.

“Neutralize the threat,” he’d been told. They handed him a collar much like his own as they said it. He’d been debriefed on the target. Wade Winston Wilson, code name Deadpool. Prior subject of the Weapon X program. Mutation successful. Inability to die, best healing factor to date. In a spectacular show of resiliency, he’d burned his particular Weapon X facility to the ground during his escape and then proceeded to hunt down and slaughter every known living associate of that facility, including Ajax, the head of the department. Even killed their recruiters. He now spends his time as a killer for hire, though he’s known for being picky about the jobs he accepts.

Weapon X regards Wade Wilson as a colossal mistake. A disappointment. A valuable asset handled with incompetence.

One they want returned to them.

They’d given Spider a collar and said, “Neutralize the threat.”

It’d be easy to carry out right now, while the man sleeps. Much easier than Spider anticipated, considering Deadpool’s considerable reputation. His collar feels particularly heavy right now, a solid, cold presence wrapped tight around his neck. He can feel its presence in the back of his mind, those spidery little tendrils that compel him to obey. Resistance is – ill advised. He hasn’t bothered resisting in a long time. Years, now. The pain of electric shock waves zapping through his central nervous system is a heavy motivator for compliance. Weapon X owns Spider. He’s more of an It. Inhuman. Built to carry out their works upon the world. Without Weapon X, he wouldn’t have any place in this world. They give Spider a – a place. It’s not a good place, or a meaningful one, even, but it’s all he’s ever known and all he’ll ever have. A person who looks like a spider – who _behaves_ like a spider – could never serve any other purpose.

He thinks again about the mission.

The orders given.

Spider listens, again, to the soft, steady beat of the mutated human’s heart.

He finds himself smiling. A strange thing. His mouth stretched – oddly. It feels weird on his face. His fangs poke out, just barely.

He thinks about those words again. _“Neutralize the threat.”_

And he thinks to himself, thinks to the collar, _I will obey_.


	3. Show Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your lovely comments.
> 
> Finally, they meet!  
> It's much more fun writing them together. ;)

3\. Show Yourself

-

-

-

Wade’s followed for the next three days straight.

Morning, afternoon, night – it doesn’t matter what time it is or where he is or even what he’s doing, that paranoid I’m-definitely-being-watched feeling follows him. It follows him back to Blind Al’s, where he picks up a healthy supply of coke to wile away some time and informs her he’ll be crashing somewhere else for a bit. For some reason, Blind Al isn’t too beat up over the news. She’s got the one dingy window covered, and he _still_ feels those eyes on him like he’s some sort of pro pole dancer at the climax of the show.

[Ha, _climax_.]

The sketchy feeling follows him to Sister Margaret’s, down the street, to the park, up and down blocks when he actively tries to lose the tail. Wade is pretty okay at parkour, but even when he’s swan-diving across rooftops, that same focused presence _is there_. It’s there when he holes up in one of his safehouses, a shithole with more garbage than he remembered there being in it – but squatters gotta squat, and at least nobody’s camping out in the place now and at least he didn’t find any deceased hobos. Not that he doesn’t know how to get rid of a body, but that would have just been depressing. He’d have felt hella guilty not to have splurged on some air conditioning in this crap heap.

As it is, Wade decides to clean the place up a bit. It’s a total dive, the kind with cracked concrete walls and one singular room that serves as kitchen, living room, and bedroom. The bathroom is a tiny little cramped space with a square shower where he has to kneel in order to position himself under the spray. He almost doesn’t even fit onto the little round toilet, and the sink doesn’t work at all. No furniture in the other room, either, not even a chair or a couch or a microwave. There’s a mini-fridge, and the sink does work in the little kitchenette area, so that’s a plus.

Weasel’s taking his time with the intel, so Wade spends a few days cleaning and shopping at Ikea and hiring a plumber to come fix the sink in the bathroom. He’s got a couple other safehouses in the city, but this one was closest, and he’s owned it for way too many years not to at least use it once. It’s only after the first attempted shower that he realizes why he’s never stayed here before.

The shower. Is. Ass.

Literally the only positive to the bathroom is that he doesn’t feel like he’s being watched in it. Maybe the invisible stalker’s claustrophobic.

[[I’m telling you, we’re not being tailed! You’ve clearly lost your mind.]]

“And I’m telling _you_.” Wade stabs a fork into the scrambled eggs on the plate with a little more gusto than strictly necessary. An older gentleman lowers his newspaper to stare at him from the adjacent booth, eyebrows raised with deep frown lines. Wade’s sitting in a back-corner booth in a greasy little diner, wearing jeans and a hoodie with the hood pulled low over his face and both his Deadpool gloves and mask on underneath the normal exterior. Walking around twenty-four seven in the costume doesn’t bother him on the regular, but people do tend to stare more when he’s loaded up with weapons. At least this way, less people notice him. They don’t realize he’s still packing heat under all these layers, so the typical civilian just sees him as a creep and not a criminal. Wade yanks his mask up to his nose and stuffs the eggs in, grinning with the mouthful on full display at the old man watching him. His eyes widen at the sight of Wade’s face, and he swallows hard, turns a little green, hurries to hide once again behind his newspaper. Wade is determined to take it as a positive that at least the geezer didn’t throw up.

He keeps talking to himself. The man’s less likely to stare, now. “We’ve got a brand-new friend, amigos, and slap a top hat on me and call me Sherlock – the RDJ one, if you please, he’s short but _feisty_ – but the timing is no coincidence, comprende?”

[Why would Weapon X be tailing us??]

[[Why aren’t they trying to capture us, you mean? ‘Cuz like, they know they can’t kill us.]]

“What other evil organization with access to an invisible super stalker do we know?”

[Oh, I dunno, the X-men maybe?]

White and Yellow are both idiots. Wade’s pretty sure that if the jumpy prickling sensation at the back of his neck were a figment of his imagination, or if the eyeballs watching him were nothing more than another hallucination, then him killing himself yesterday would have reset it. Shooting himself in the head usually recalibrates those sorts of cerebral malfunctions, and he’d given it the old college try. But if anything, he re-alived feeling even more uneasy, the scrutiny even closer than before, even more pointed and fixed. It’s maddening. Annoying as fuck. Pesky like the buzz of an uncatchable fly zipping around his head. Also, a little flattering?

Nah, mostly annoying.

Especially since it’s probably a Weapon X prick.

‘Cuz look, nobody’s ever called Wade Winston Wilson the sharpest tool in woodshop, but he’s got a particular set of skills, okay? Anything murder related or murder adjacent, and he’s your dude. And he’s pretty sure Weapon X counts as both murder related _and_ murder adjacent. Two of their lower level grunts escaped Deadpool unscathed on the same night he found himself an escape-artist follower. Even the dullest tool in woodshop could connect those dots.

Well, except for White and Yellow, apparently. They’re just idiots.

[[If we’re idiots, what does that say about you?]]

[For the record, I hate you both.]

[[It doesn’t make sense for Weapon X to follow us! What’re they even waiting for?]]

Unlike the voices in his head, Wade doesn’t care much about Weapon X’s plans for world domination or their reasoning behind anything. Who cares why they’re following him? Who cares why they only started doing so three nights ago? That’s not the point and it’s almost entirely irrelevant. No, the more important consideration is just _who’s_ following him.

In his mind, there are only two options

One: someone like that Angel chick. What an _asshole_. She mutated like all the other _lucky_ lab rats, but then proceeded to _choose_ to work for the shady torture labs, because apparently with great power comes great sadism. She didn’t wear one of those control collars because they didn’t need to control her. Angel’s amused, half-cocked grins staring down at him while he lay bound and shivering, covered in scabs and blood and _fluids_ , the stench of that place paired with the smell of her perfume as she leaned in too close, way too close… if he closes his eyes, Wade can still see her face, can feel the brush of her hair on his cheek as she leaned forward to strap him down, can viscerally _feel_ himself strapped to that cold, unforgiving table. She didn’t just _enjoy_ hurting people. She’d been _thirsty_ for it.

Or, Two: a less consenting, less voluntary mutated Weapon X experiment.

He knows he’s being followed by a person with powers because he’d have found a normal human by now. So, either he’s being followed by an asshole who needs to die slow, or he’s being followed by an unwilling participant who needs to die fast to get put out of their misery. That’s what Wade would have wanted.

Technically, it’s what he _still_ wants.

Because he’s not sure which one of those two options he’s dealing with yet, Deadpool wavers between unrelenting hatred and soft, understanding sympathy toward his new shadow. He can feel the super person’s – Wade’s named him Eddie in his mind, going with the Edward Cullen-stalker theme – stare on him as he finishes his eggs. He’s not sure if Eddie’s invisibly sitting somewhere in the diner or if he’s super-stealth hiding somewhere outside, looking in through windows. Either way, even if Eddie isn’t close enough to hear him talk, Wade’s feeling soft at the moment, and too annoyed at White and Yellow to talk to them, so he talks to Eddie. He’s been doing that off and on for the past three days. It feels a lot like talking to himself, since he never gets any response, but Wade’s no stranger to talking to himself.

“Do you like eggs, Ed?” he asks the air.

It’s a credit to how ugly Wade’s face is that the old man sitting nearby doesn’t even twitch in his direction, doesn’t even try to see who he might be talking to this go around.

Wade leaves a few hundred bucks on the table and heads out.

He’s got an Ikea bookshelf to build today, so he walks back to the safehouse and takes off the hoodie, hot as balls without functioning a/c and all the layers. It bares his arms to the room, and he hates the look of them, hates glimpsing his skin every time he moves his arms. He makes it three minutes before he’s got to put the hoodie back on, and he feels a little sick, like he might keel over from heatstroke at any moment. So, he goes back out for some thinner long-sleeved shirts and ends up buying one for every day of the month. Plus a handful of chocolate bars at the register, damn those impulse buys. Once he’s back at the safehouse, Wade strips off the hoodie and yanks on one of the shirts, not bothering to remove the price tag as he rips a chocolate bar open with his teeth and bites off a chunk. He grabs another bar and opens the window, sets the chocolate on the windowsill.

He pops his head out of the window then to check for Eddie.

Cranes his neck to look up, then all around. Nothing.

[Because nobody’s watching you! You’re literally talking to yourself now.]

Wade hangs his head out of the window, ignoring the boxes, and says, “Got you some chocolate, invisible stare guy! Better eat it fast though, it’s gonna melt.”

He spends the next hour munching on chocolate and putting together cheap furniture.

It’s less fun than it sounds.

Wade’s staring at the instructions, tilting the black and white image this way and that to try and make sense of it, when the boxes kick up a fuss, yelling and screaming in his head to look at the window. He almost whacks himself in the head with a screwdriver in his haste to knock his palm over his ears to stop them from ringing from all the noise, cussing out the boxes as he drops the instructions and glances angrily at the window, saying as he goes, “– cking assholes, you can’t just _scream_ at a man on a missio – EDDIE, YOU ATE THE CHOCOLATE!”

Scrambling for the window, tripping over particle boards, Wade sticks his head out into the open air again but doesn’t see anyone besides civilians walking along the sidewalk or in cars and taxis on the road. Some of them have their necks craned up, staring at his masked face sticking out of his window, pointing or wide-eyed. Wade resists the urge to lift the mask and stick his tongue out at them. The candy is gone, though, without a trace, and he’s too excited to pay the civvies much mind.

“I KNEW YOU WERE A REAL BOY!” Wade dances a little jig. “I _told_ you!”

[A bird probably got to it.]

[[A squirrel!]]

Wade’s curiosity for his stalker spikes, because damn son, what kind of powers enable a dude to fetch a chocolate bar from a windowsill four stories up without making any sound? He’s half convinced this dude/dudette can both fly and turn invisible, _at least_ , and he’s _dying_ to get a face to face interaction. He talks to the air for a couple minutes, all excited babbles about chocolates and super powers and how he wishes his superpowers were almost anything else, and maybe if they meet, they can trade powers because if _he_ could turn invisible, that’d be _swell_.

“I’m sure you must have noticed how hideous I am by now,” he tells the air. “I mean, lucky for you I keep everything under wraps for the most part, but if you’ve been paying attention as well as it _feels_ like you’re paying attention – mad props to the intensity of your focus, bee tee dubs, I haven’t felt this noticed since my brief Celine Deon collaboration – then you’ll have seen some flashes of skin you probably won’t ever be able to unsee again. Hazards of having to stalk me, I guess. I’d be sorry about it, but screw you, I should be able to expose my own fucking arms in my own fucking squatter house – um. Sorry, I haven’t decided if I hate you or not yet. It’d sure help if you showed yourself to me, then we could chat properly without my head sticking out a window.”

Nothing

Wade sighs. Then, a Frozen II song pops into his head. He returns to the scattered carcass of the Ikea shelf and sings it, hoping that the force of the song and the frustration of the building project can keep him from being reminded of how many times he and Vanessa used to cuddle close and watch those movies together. “I have always been a fortress, cold secrets deep inside. You have secrets too, but you don’t have to hide… Show yourself, I’m dying to meet you! Show yourself, it’s your turn!”

[Ah ah ah ah!]

[[YOU ARE THE ANSWERS I’VE WAITED FOR!]]

[ALL OF MY LIFEEEEEE.]

It’s hopeless. Wade drops the screwdriver so it clatters against a particle board, scatters a few screws. He and Ness loved the sing along versions. Wade would belt them out while she danced, all sexy shimmies that probably didn’t pair well with the innocence of Disney. But screw it, she was beautiful, all soft curves and smooth confidence in the privacy of their shared space. They took a drink every time someone said the word ‘ice’ and by the end of the first Frozen, Vanessa had the giggly swagger of a woman too drunk to walk straight. They’d fallen into bed like that more than once, laughing almost the entire time. He missed sex in general, missed being taken apart and put back together, missed being so engrossed in another person that the world faded away, missed being seen and lavished upon and consumed, missed focusing on making someone feel fucking amazing, those blissed out, appreciative moans… but Wade thinks he misses the fun sex the most. The laughter, the warm content feeling of being vulnerable and present and connected, the inside jokes and the goofiness, skin on skin. He misses Vanessa’s dark humor and her running leaps toward him and the way she’d bite her lip when she was concentrating and –

Gwen Stefani cuts through his downward spiral, cheerfully singing about not being a Hollaback girl.

“Oh, thank Christ!” Wade reaches for the phone, whooshing out a breath.

It’s Weasel.

Wade answers it and immediately says, “You better have Weapon X related news, because I’m about two seconds away from hurling myself out the window and traumatizing some pedestrians with my insides going _splat_ all over them.”

“Why are you always so dramatic?” Weasel huffs.

“Who, _moi_?”

“Yes, twat, you! I get whiplash from all the emotions every time we talk!”

[You are pretty emotional.]

[[Like, _The Notebook_ levels of dramatic.]]

“Okay one, screw you. And two,” Wade paces to the kitchenette for water, because he’s hot and the long-sleeved shirt is sticking to him and he’s pretty sure his brain associates Weasel with drinking because he’s got the sudden urge to hold a glass and sip some liquids. He’s wrestling a couple ice cubes out of the ice tray, the phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder, when he adds, “Men have just as many emotions as women do and fuck you very much, but I’m gonna feel them. Don’t knock it just ‘cuz your daddy hit you too many times in your formative years and convinced you boys don’t cry. _We do too cry_ , you piece of shit –”

“Wade, Wade, Wade, _please stop talking_.”

“You’re not the first person to ask me to do that –”

“No surprises there! Shit, this is derailing. Look, I didn’t call because I wanted to talk to you.” Wade mock gasps his outrage into the phone, but Weasel ignores him and says an insistent, “I called because I’ve got news about your little run in the other night.”

Wade lifts his mask enough to chug a glass of cold water.

Weasel’s voice cracks. “You’d better not be blowing somebody right now, oh my God –”

[[I WISH.]]

[Like anyone would let us do THAT ever again.]

[[… and now I’m sad.]]

The assumption makes Wade choke, spluttering up water that runs down his chin and wets the front of his shirt. Damn, but the cold water down his front actually feels good. He splashes the rest of the glass on him and goes to fill it up again from the sink. When the choking dies down, he coughs and laughs, says, “Trust me, if I ever _did_ manage to get somebody’s cock down my throat again, answering your call wouldn’t be on my list of things to do. Other things would be on the list, a whole lot of other things –”

“No, no, no, we’re not dragging this conversation out a single minute longer than it’s gotta be, I’m putting my foot down. I thought you wanted me to tell you about your evil organization problem but if you’ve changed your mind –”

“I’m rolling my eyes at you, in case you were wondering.” And so he can’t be called a liar, Wade rolls his eyes.

“Well what a coincidence! I’ve been doing that this whole time.”

This is one of many, _many_ reasons they aren’t the sort of friends who call each other up to chat. But it turns out Weasel does deliver on the intel – he’s got the name and address of the person who owns the van, as well as seven confirmed missing homeless people within a thirteen-mile radius within the past three months. They were never reported missing, but nobody disappears around here without causing whispers, especially among the homeless. They tend to watch out for each other, if only because what happens to one could very well happen to them all, and if you’re not aware of your surroundings, you won’t last a night on the streets. Now that Weasel’s watching out for it, it shouldn’t take long at all to track for patterns in the disappearances. And Wade’s no slouch, either. Weapon X might as well throw themselves in coffins now and save their loved ones the trouble. If they even have loved ones.

[They’re evil torture fetishists with a hardon for involuntary human experimentation, but I betcha even they’ve got people who love them.]

[[Unlike you.]]

[That was _implied_. You didn’t have to say it.]

[[Um, I wanted to, dipshit. I live to crush the big guy’s spirit, what can I say.]]

Wade scowls. Tries to block them out. “First piece of business is skewering the fuck who shot my milk.”

Weasel’s voice is deadpan. “That’s not a sentence I ever expected to hear in my life.”

“That milk was five bucks! Five!”

They both fall down a tangent about milk prices while Wade wrestles himself back into his suit and straps on some weapons. He feels brief self-consciousness when he strips off the civvies, so he does that in the bathroom where his watcher won’t watch, although he does consider revealing his skin in its full glory just to see if the dude would hurl chunks and give away his location. He decides against the plan only because if someone else hurls chunks at the sight of him right now, Wade might cry. It might not look like it on the outside, but he’s a person like any other person, damn it. There’s only so much horror at the sight of him Wade can take before the weight of it all crushes whatever might be left of his soul, and then he’s gotta reset with a bullet to the brain, but he really wants to go after Weapon X right now so that’s just gonna have to wait.

Weasel ends the call with his patented pep talk. “Give ‘em hell, Wilson. I’d come along, but I don’t want to.”

Gotta love the bravado. Weasel wouldn’t last twelve minutes in a gun fight.

Fully suited up now, Deadpool wrenches the closet-bathroom door open and marches out.

Well. He tries?

Instead, he runs smack into what feels like an elastic clear wall that stretches as he tries to walk through it, sticking to him as it bounces him back into the doorway and holds him in place. His mask pulls as he tries to tug his face away, stuck to the stuff. “What the shit is, eek, it’s sticking to me!” He wriggles this way and that, trying to break free, eyes wide behind the mask because holy shit is that a giant fucking man spider clinging to his ceiling or is that – nope, that’s _definitely a giant fucking man spider clinging to his ceiling_.

“Holy shit!” Deadpool says.

He thinks he might be genuinely intimidated right now. It looks like a man, shaped like a man with two human arms and two human legs, wearing a full-body black suit that accentuates his lean muscles almost better than Deadpool’s suit. So _not fair_ , how does it – wait, not important right now. He’s clinging to the ceiling on the balls of his feet and with the tips of his fingers, poised like a spider ready to pounce on a fly caught in its web and holy shit Deadpool realizes that _he’s_ that fly and that it’s a _fucking spider web_ that’s got him stuck in his own doorway. A moment passes where they stare at each other, Wade wide-eyed and the spider – well, he’s an unreadable blankness, his head masked and bug-eyed blacked-out goggles covering his eyes. Something long and textured twitches against the man’s back, and upon closer inspection, it looks like four literal spider legs pulled in close against his shoulder blades, long appendages he isn’t using, but shit they’re still _the coolest thing he’s ever seen_. Deadpool wiggles again. One arm’s free enough to reach around for a knife at his belt, which fails harder than AIM tech to slice through the webbing. Wade gives up on it after a few tries, lets the useless blade drop from his grip and clatter to the cheap tiled floor.

The spider is watching him struggle. His head tilts.

That’s when Deadpool notices the collar.

It blends into the suit, a black line of steel, but it’s thick enough to stand out from the fabric if he’s looking for it.

Shit. Involuntary Weapon X experiment it is.

“Um, hi, I’m Deadpool?” Deadpool tries. The wiggling isn’t getting him anywhere except almost unmasked, since the mask is what’s stuck to the webs, and every time he tries to pull himself off the stuff, the mask doesn’t budge. He relaxes into the webbed wall and tries another tactic. “You must be Eddie! Or, well, I don’t know your real name, but please feel free to tell me it because nobody who looks as hardcore as you do should be named after a sparkly watered-down vamp. I think you’re definitely more Nosferatu, but like – cuter? I can’t really tell but just – the way you move is super cute. Look at that head tilt! The effortless way you’re hanging out on the ceiling like you belong there is totes adorable, I could just eat you right up. Um, speaking of, you don’t plan on eating me right up, do you? ‘Cuz I’d regenerate and it might not work out for you in the long run. I mean I’ve never been eaten before – well, not in the cannibal sense – so this is pure speculation, but usually regeneration doesn’t take as long as the digestive track would to, you know, digest me? So, I’d probably regenerate while I’m still inside you and I bet it’d hurt your tummy something fierce…”

Deadpool trails off, uncertain, the man spider staring at him, watching him talk.

When Deadpool’s voice stops, Spidey (because he’s definitely _not_ an Eddie) drops down on a line of webbing until his feet touch the floor, silent and graceful as he lands and walks toward him. Deadpool wiggles at his approach and tries to convince himself it’s not because he’s turned on by the scary little prowl the black-clad man spider uses as he stalks so silently toward him. That’s not hot at all. Nope, that’s not – oh who’s he kidding, this dude is fucking scary and the way his lean body moves is hot as hell. Deadpool babbles because he’s not sure what else to do right now. “What’re we doing here, Spidey? Is this a hostile takeover? Are you gonna eat me? Molest me? Kill me? Personally, I wouldn’t mind the molestation, if you’re taking requests we could just go with that option –”

“I’m neutralizing the threat.”

And ooh, his _voice_. A soft, assured baritone, a little hoarse, scratchy like he might not talk too often, but there’s a gentleness there that’s genuine, an underlying hint of humor buried in those blank, empty black googles. A shiver works its way up Deadpool’s spine. The words themselves are – okay. So Weapon X wants him _neutralized_ , whatever that means, but they know he can’t die, right? Surely they told this little spiderling his party trick before they sent him after him? Spidey gets right in front of him and leans in close, so close Deadpool can feel his body heat. And then he gets _even closer_ , his face leaning in and tilting up as though he thinks kissing the trapped merc over their masks and through the webbing seems like a great plan. Deadpool hasn’t had anyone this close since Vanessa, since pre-Weapon X Vanessa, really, the Ness that didn’t throw up sometimes at the sight of him. The unexpected closeness with another human is _doing things_ to him. Maybe human. Probably human. Human-like, anyway, and that’s good enough for Deadpool. If he’s about to die, he’s not sure he cares. Spidey’s a few inches shorter than he is, all wiry muscles, and he’s smaller, long-limbed. He reaches a hand up and pulls the black fabric up a little, stopping when his lips and nose are exposed. His lips are chapped, dry, but the way he’s got one side quirked up, an almost smile like he doesn’t know how to get it all the way there, shows off one sharp, pointy fang.

A little bit like Nosferatu, actually…

The half-masked Spidey leans his face close to Deadpool’s neck.

At the same time, he reaches a hand up and touches the edge of Deadpool’s mask through the webbing that separates them.

Wade tenses, swallows hard. “Woah, hey, hey, you don’t want to see what’s under this – _ooh_ , okay, just, um.” Deadpool loses all ability to function. He can’t speak. What was he even going to say? He moans instead as the man spider pulls his mask up just enough to _literally lick Deadpool’s exposed neck._ Wade tries to tilt his head back for easier access, but he’s trapped in place by the webs, can only hang there while the man’s tongue leaves a slow, lingering trail of saliva along his jugular. He’s half hard from that alone, almost instantly, his body too sensitive after going so long without touch. His hands twitch where they’re hanging, desperate to touch back. Every nerve and cell in his body feels charged, all connected to that one spot of contact, those slow little cat licks.

Wade’s out of breath just from fucking hanging here. “You’re – _ahh_ , S-spidey?” He moans again at another lick, dick twitching uncomfortably against the leather suit, wiggling because it’s not possible to keep still right now. The spider man hums an inquisitive little breath, pausing, like he actually wants to know what Wade was going to ask. What was he going to ask again? Oh, oh, right… “Not-not that I’m complaining at the turn this has taken, I mean I did request you go with the molestation option, so thanks for delivering, but what the ever-living fuck are you doing?”

[Good question.]

[[I am so turned on right now.]]

Spidey mumbles against his throat. “Neutralizing the threat.”

“Is that – _ahh_ ,” he’s gone back to licking him, Wade can’t think, holy fuck – “’s that all you know how to say? What about – what about consent? Weapon X fucks ever teach you about the importance of consent? Take a girl out to dinner first, I’m not normally this kinda gal, ‘s a little too close for a first meeting, don’t you think – ooh, never mind. Keep doing that, that’s nice –”

Spidey stops then, at the exact moment Wade tells him to keep going. Wade groans in frustration and his hips gyrate into the webbing, but of course it’s hopeless. How’s he even this turned on by a stranger, his nerves feel like they’re frying, his whole body is trembling, his dick hard enough to cut through this fucking sticky ass goop wall – except not really, apparently, because the goop wall doesn’t budge. Spidey lifts his head away from Wade’s neck and stares at his masked face, those black googles not even reflective enough to see himself in them. They give nothing away, but his lips glisten from his saliva, pulled into a harsh thin line.

“You think –” Spidey’s head tilts again. He’s got a tiny lisp, probably from talking with those fangs in his mouth. He says a slow, careful, “You think it’s – nice?”

Wade whines and wiggles. “Hell _yes it was_ , why’d you stop, hell, why’d you _start_ –”

“Neutralizing the threat,” Spidey mumbles again.

Wade squirms even harder. He feels pathetic hanging there like a ragdoll, hard and aching from a stranger’s brief touch, but above that undercurrent of self-loathing is pure, unbridled _rage_. If this is what Spidey’s been taught neutralizing a threat looks like, then Wade seriously needs to renew his efforts to slaughter the entirety of the Weapon X shit stains off the face of the universe. He’ll kill them all slow for teaching this dude to _lick_ his targets, what the fuck kind of sick games are they _playing_. They apparently took their fuckery to a whole new level and Wade didn’t even know they were still around, how many other people have they done this shit with –

Spidey lunges for his neck again.

Wade moans, thoughts poofing away like smoke at the jostled movement. Spidey bumps his head on Wade’s chin this time, less careful, less controlled, lapping at his neck with quick wet swipes of his tongue that light Wade’s nerves on fire all over again.

Then Spidey’s tongue disappears, replaced by a sharp prick against his carotid.

Wade’s vision darkens. He twitches against the webs.

He’s dead before those fangs leave his throat.


	4. Let Me Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I so appreciate your comments. Thank you for reading. <3

4\. Let Me Help

-

-

-

When Wade’s brain comes back online, it’s dark outside and his spider friend is nowhere to be found. He’s laying facedown on the floor in front of his bathroom, as though the webbing gave out and he splatted forward, and when he rolls himself over and peers at the doorway, webbing isn’t there at all anymore. Maybe it dissolves over time? Or did his spider friend get rid of it while he was dead?

The boxes are quiet in his head.

In fact, he feels so suddenly alone that it’s jarring. Jarring and a little – stifling. Like he can’t breathe as well.

“Where’d you go, Spidey?” he murmurs to himself.

He can’t feel any eyes on him though. He sits up, rips off one glove, and touches his hand to the spot on his neck that had been so recently ravished. There aren’t any signs it’d been ripped into by fangs, no signs it’d been licked to almost-completion by a stranger, but… Wade feels a little fizzle of excitement in his belly, his heart a little fluttery, at the point of contact. Somebody had touched him. Somebody had _licked_ him. His skin’s disgusting even on his neck, reddened and rippling, raised scars and deep sores that give it a texture even a mother couldn’t love. But still Spidey had gone for it. Surely there’d been less invasive ways for the super to have killed him. Wade’s not sure if it’d been a Weapon X directive or if maybe Spidey had chosen that method for him, and he can’t stop wondering.

“You know you didn’t neutralize me, right?” He can’t break the habit of saying it out loud, even though the dude’s obviously not around to hear him right now. “I mean, you did for a bit, A plus work there, but I’m back now, sooo…”

This whole thing has turned into quite the enjoyable puzzle. Wade grabs his katanas, inhales a pop tart, and heads out, thinking as he walks. The civilians on the streets give him a wide berth, like they usually do, though he can’t help but catch their whispered commentaries. He’s in his full Deadpool getup, so they can’t see his skin, but there’s always questions about what he’s hiding under the suit, or is there a comic-con in town this weekend? Or even better, should they call the cops? Look at all those weapons! Are those real swords? Is he a terrorist?

Blah blah blah.

It’s easy to ignore them all right now, because his brain is firmly stuck on Spidey. Why’d he just – bite and leave? Where’d he go? Did Weapon X _not mention_ Deadpool’s immortality? It seems like something they should have mentioned. Then again, they are incompetent, so maybe – but a certain spider dude sure didn’t seem incompetent. He almost wishes the boxes would come back online so he’s got somebody to bounce ideas off of. Not that they’re anymore competent than Weapon X, but at least they’re voices that respond when he talks. Sometimes.

For now, Deadpool’s got two grunts to track.

He takes a taxi to the address Weasel gave. Dopinder’s on some tropical vacation or something, so he’s stuck with a random civilian who side eyes him the whole ride and won’t let him sit up front. He even child locks the windows after Deadpool button mashes the up and down buttons one too many times. Asshole. It has to be one of the quietest, most boring twenty minutes of his life, not even White and Yellow around to pester him. It starts raining, though, so at least he can count water droplets on the closed window. When the driver pulls up to a shady little apartment complex and screeches to a halt, rattling off the price, Deadpool whooshes out a relieved breath to be done with the whole affair, opens the door to step out, and says, “I don’t even pay the cab driver I _like_ , broseph, and you didn’t even let me play with the windows.”

The man’s mouth drops open, like he can’t even believe it. “You have to pay me!”

“I know, right? It’s not usually my MO to dine and dash. I totally usually tip so much money. I just throw money at anybody who has to deal with me, really. Customer service civilians are the unsung heroes of the world, they deserve way less attitude and way more hundos.” In saying all this, Deadpool still exits the vehicle and shuts the door behind him. He holds up two hands and shrugs at the outraged cab driver while standing in the middle of the road with the rain soaking his suit. A few cars start honking, so he heads to the apartment building, yelling at bit to be heard over the rain as he says a parting, “But for some reason, it’s canon for me not to pay the cabbies! What can you do? Toodle loo!”

The villain van from a few nights ago is parked on the curb.

His boots squish with rainwater as he tromps into the building and presses the elevator button. He waits for a minute there, arms crossed and whistling, then presses the button a few more times when nothing happens. No dice. Shitty apartment complex is shitty. Stairs it is.

The stairwell is – sticky and rancid, like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 90s, and the occasional lightbulb sputters so the whole place goes dark for a second here and there. Even his safehouse is better than this, and he’s not even made it to the apartment yet. He takes the stairs two at a time to speed things along, walks down an even moldier-smelling hallway on the eleventh floor, and then knocks like Anna from _Frozen_ on the paper-thin green door. It rattles off its hinges when he knocks, falls inward. Deadpool freezes with his fist still raised, stares at the door that’s now on the ground, then at the ransacked living space it reveals. Overturned old furniture, a coffee table that’s split down the middle like every coffee table in every action movie ever, a shattered lamp with glass shards scattered on the floor, glinting from the light from the hallway. On the floor in a puddle of blood is one of the Weapon X grunts who escaped him a few nights ago with a sizeable hole in the center of his chest.

Deadpool leans into the room enough to find and flick on the light switch by the door.

With the room bathed in light, Deadpool can see the man’s face frozen in horror, eyes wide and glassy, mouth open. The driver, not the milk-shooter.

And then he looks up.

“Spidey!” He squeals like a little girl, what can he say? Spidey’s poised on the ceiling in one corner of the room, the same way he’d been back in Deadpool’s safehouse, those black googles pointed straight at him, watching him. Deadpool skips into the room and over the body to stand under the spider guy. He waves at the motionless dark figure, then of course his mouth runs away from him and the first thing he can think to say is, “I woke up and you weren’t there any more and I didn’t know if you knew I can’t die but, like, I can’t die, so if you wanna neutralize me again I’d totally be on board with that – but also, you don’t gotta skedaddle right after like some one-night stand morning after, I’d at least make you breakfast first! Do you like eggs?” Spidey doesn’t respond, though his hands flex against the ceiling, his spidey legs twitching at his back. Deadpool rocks onto the balls of his feet and hooks his hands into his belt. When Spidey tilts his head at him, Deadpool tilts his back. “I should also probably ask here since you’re not saying anything and silence ain’t my jam, but did you kill my mark? Because that’s a little rude, my dude. Also, aren’t they Weapon X guys? Like, your guys? I gotta say, I’m having trouble figuring out your motives here.”

“They _aren’t_ ,” that raspy voice finally says, and it’s insistent.

Deadpool blinks. “They aren’t…?”

Spidey hops off the ceiling like a jumping spider, which straight-up makes Deadpool shriek and leap away. Unfortunately, he trips over the dead guy on the ground and lands on his ass on some glass shards and blood, which is just _so not cool, Deadpool, get it together_. He scrambles back to his feet and flexes his butt to pop some of those shards out, wincing. Hands on his knees, Wade looks at Spidey, who’s standing so composed and still a couple feet away, and wheezes, “Geez baby boy, you’re scary and I am _so into it_ , oh em gee!”

He wishes he could see Spidey’s face. Or his eyes, at least.

“They aren’t Weapon X,” Spidey says.

Deadpool tries to stay on track, he really does. “Well then I got some faulty intel from a dead guy, and I’m totes gonna need to have some words –”

“They – they were hired by Weapon X,” Spidey clarifies. “To bring in – recruits.” His voice indicates that he doesn’t much care for that word. Then he gets insistent again and says, “But not – not technically a part of the organization. They only had some – some dealings.”

“Cool, cool,” Deadpool says. Then: “But I still kinda wanted to be the one to kill ‘em.”

Spidey takes a step toward him. Deadpool stands tall and freezes in place, tries not to make any sudden movements as Spidey walks so lightly on his feet that he doesn’t make a single sound, not even the crunch of glass underfoot as he walks over it. He steps over the dead guy and comes within arm’s reach but makes no move to lick him again. Makes no move to touch at all, just stands close with his arms at his sides.

“You did kill them,” Spidey whispers.

Deadpool blinks. “I did?”

“You have a reputation,” Spidey says.

“All good things, I hope.” Deadpool’s feeling a little lost, he’s not gonna lie. But he’s had less sensical conversations with the boxes, so he figures he’s got enough experience to roll with the non sequiturs. Spidey sounds a little – manic, his voice has this determined harshness, like he wants to say something but just keeps talking around it instead. Deadpool wonders if someone can hear them, wonders if somebody’s listening in. Why else would Spidey not just say what he’s trying to say?

Spidey’s still whispering. With the rain pelting down outside, Deadpool has to lean in a little to hear him, a small movement Spidey seemingly allows without trying to bite his face off for it. He says in his stilted baritone, “Weapon X is afraid of you. They know what you can do, know what you’ve done. You’ve got a reputation for killing loose ends. For killing – everyone. I’ve been trying to get the better of you, but you’re strong. Unpredictable.” Ha, as though Spidey didn’t get the better of him the moment they met. But Spidey sounds awfully adamant, his whisper voice a rushed, near pleading, “They know that. They can be patient because they know how – hard you are to beat. They’re giving me time. When they find out you killed these guys, they won’t even care. As long as I’m still – working to neutralize you. Which I am.”

“Why you little _rebel_ you!”

“You got here first and killed them,” Spidey insists again.

Deadpool is quick to nod. “Sure did. They were total wimps about it, too.”

Spidey’s shoulders sag at his easy agreement. He sighs, a soft, quiet sound in the night.

It’s Deadpool’s turn to whisper. “Do you have a plan here, Spidey?” Then, just in case somebody _is_ listening in, he raises his mask with a slow, careful hand, just enough to show his mouth, and he mouths the words, “Let me help.”

It instantly feels too vulnerable, like he’s revealing too much.

He yanks the mask back down and still feels naked.

Spidey’s shaking his head. The fight’s left his voice. “You can’t. It won’t – won’t come off.”

Maybe they aren’t being listened to after all. In that case, what was all that you-killed-them-not-me speech about?

“I can’t get most things off these days, not with this butterface, but I’ll get _that_ off.” Deadpool’s eyes flick to the collar. If Spidey can’t get it off, there’s little chance he’d be able to use sheer strength for the job. But Weapon X is incompetent, and there’s gotta be a way. If they put it on, Deadpool can find a way to take it off. His voice is dark, full of promise, when he says, “Give me a little time and I’ll find out how it’s done.”

Spidey’s arm comes up, quick as a cat, grabbing for Deadpool’s throat. Deadpool side steps a second before contact is made, but Spidey’s on the offensive now. Some sort of switch has been flipped, and he’s not sure what happened to flip it or why now, but they’re suddenly grappling around the room, Spidey clearly going for the kill. Deadpool has the disadvantage because he’s pulling his punches, but he honestly doesn’t need to pull much of anything, because Spidey’s quick on his feet and tactically springy. Deadpool swan dives behind the downturned couch to avoid some of that sticky goop, which seems to _thwip_ right out of Spidey’s _wrists_. Spidey uses those four spider legs, then, to shove the couch out of the way and _thwip_ another glob at him at the same time. Deadpool dodges it, but he’s distracted by how fucking badass those spider legs look coming out of his _fucking back_ like that, long sinewy black legs with black fuzzy baby hairs, strong enough to bench press a couch without even a hint of a struggle. Spidey thwips webbing at his feet and catches him there, sticking him in place.

Deadpool unsheathes a katana right when Spidey gets close, swiping it in front of him. He’s not trying to hit him, though, and the slash is slow enough for Spidey to flip out of the way. He lands in a spider crouch, all legs on the ground, eyes tracking as Deadpool hacks his katana against the webs at his feet. There’s some resistance, but unlike the knife from their last encounter, good ol’ Bea cuts through the webbing.

Spidey thwips more webbing, but Deadpool twirls his katana around him, slicing through the gunk midair. “Damn Spidey, show me how you really feel!”

He must take that as a challenge, because he pounces on him with all his legs, which is _fucking scary, so not fair_ , and Deadpool’s heart threatens to beat out his chest as he throws his katana aside just in time for it not to slice through the spider like warm butter. He very nearly threw himself on Deadpool’s sword, _what the fuck_ , and Deadpool’s hands come up and grab him around his shoulders and stop him from getting within biting range. He didn’t care last time, but this time he’s in some dead idiot’s apartment, and he’s way more interested in helping this dude get this collar off him than he is in taking another nap into dead land.

But Spidey’s four sinewy legs prod at his sides, holding on, and then one of his human legs is grinding into his crotch, and the fight’s rapidly dwindling from Deadpool’s brain, replaced by how close their bodies are and the vivid memory of Spidey’s tongue lapping at his neck. Then Spidey’s using more webbing to wrap him up, _literally wrap him up_ like a fly on a spider web, like a Deadpool burrito, hold the guac, and his sword’s too far away to even consider trying to use it this time. His other sword gets wrapped up right along with the rest of him.

Despite being effectively bound from shoulders to tiptoes, Spidey doesn’t move off of him. No, he relaxes there instead, the tension and battle readiness draining from straining muscles as the man spider breathes into his mask and kinda just – melts against him. Not literally – that’d be a whole different sort of nightmare – no, he lets his weight fall atop Deadpool and his arms come around him, a little like a makeshift hug? Are they snuggling right now, two feet away from a dead body?

Wade might be the only person in the history of the universe who’d be okay with this.

But – well, call him crazy, but he’s _so okay with this_.

Spidey nuzzles his head close to Deadpool’s. And Deadpool just – _Wade_ just – his heart’s in his throat, it’s hard to take in a full breath with the weight of the webbing and Spidey splayed out on his chest, his arms are stuck at his sides and it’s so fucking warm he’s sweating bullets under all this, and Spidey’s just fucking _nuzzling close_ like they’re _lovers_ or something, he doesn’t know how to deal with –

“It unlocks with a code,” Spidey breathes into his ear.

Deadpool stops squirming, listens instead.

“The code changes. Dunno how often. They put me under every time they change the collar out, so I never see what they’re inputting. If someone gets the code wrong once, I get – it zaps me a little. Twice, it’ll kill me. I can give you a day to come up with something, but – that’s pushing it. Might be less than a day. I –” He stops. Deadpool hears him swallow. He’s so close that he can even hear it when Spidey licks his own lips inside the mask. He sounds young, then. A little scared. “I’ve never done this before, but you – you escaped them. This might be the only – only chance I get to try. If you – if you help me, I’ll help you kill them. All of them, this time. You could – you could use me. I know all their higher ups. I know their –”

He can’t listen to the desperation in his voice anymore. He can’t. His head’s the only thing he can move at the moment, so he does, nuzzling his head back into the spider’s, so his masked cheek rubs along Spidey’s masked forehead. It shuts the man up long enough for Deadpool to whisper, “You don’t gotta give me a damn thing, baby boy. If you wanna help me kill ‘em all, that’s one thing – I’d totes be down for a fully consensual spideypool team up. But if you’d rather leave all this shit behind and disappear, I’d help you disappear. Or get out of your way, just _let_ you disappear, if that’s what you want.”

“I want to kill them.” Spidey leans up and away, for a moment, so he’s straddling Deadpool, hands on his webbed chest. He looks down at him with those impenetrable black googles, head tilted. Deadpool strains forward but can’t get any leverage, whines instead. “Then we’ll kill them, Spidey,” he promises. “Scouts honor.” He actually was a scout once, had bonafide scout badges and everything. Not that Scouts Canada would claim him as one of their own now that he’s him, but whatever.

“I want to kiss you,” Spidey says, then, and Wade’s brain short circuits. “Can I?”

“Um, what? Sorry, I think I just hallucinated –”

“I want to kiss you,” Spidey says it slower this time. Careful. “Can I?”

Deadpool’s not sure he didn’t hallucinate again. But it’s a damn fine hallucination, and his whole body reacts to the words, his skin all on fire in the best of ways. Wide-eyed, he tries to breathe in and out, in and out, swallows around the lump in his throat. “You don’t wanna kiss me, Spidey – trust me, my face is horrendous, like a mack truck ran over it and then somebody tried to re-inflate it, but it’s still roadkill, and it moves, my skin – I make people _throw up_ and I don’t really want a face full of vomit right now, it’s hard to breathe as it is –”

“I’ve seen your skin.” Spidey’s hand trails up from his chest to his neck. He stops there with his thumb rubbing the crease between his suit, his fingers at the edge of his mask. A finger slips inside, then, trailing over the skin on his neck, right where he’d bitten before. When Deadpool swallows, he can feel Spidey’s hand on his throat, can feel the pressure there. His nerves light up all over again at that point of contact. If Spidey actually does kiss him, he might not survive it, and not just because of those fangs. He’s half hard all over again, in the same position as last time, only it’s worse now, _so much worse_ , because they’ve _chatted_ and Spidey’s trying to rebel against Weapon X and he’s got his spider legs extended out on both sides of him like the wings of a fallen angel, and he _just asked Wade if he could kiss him_ –

“Let me kiss you?” Spidey asks again, but his voice is softer now. “I’ll be gentle this time.”

“ _Fuck_ me, fuck, yes, yeah, you can – just, try not to throw up?”

Spidey doesn’t answer in words. Instead, he raises his mask up to his nose again, showing off his lips, still chapped but stretched into a little smile, something fragile. It’s almost instantly calming to see his lips, because he can tell so much more about what he’s thinking. He’ll be able to see the disgust once his own mask gets raised, he’ll be able to see that smile disappear, he’ll be able to stop it, to reassure him that he doesn’t have to go through with it –

Spidey’s fingers leave goosebumps where they slide against his neck. He raises Deadpool’s mask until it’s above his nose then stops, palm cupping his scarred cheek. Either those black googles of his inhibit his eyesight, or his lips _lie_ , but that little smile remains in place all the way up until he presses it against Deadpool’s open mouth and then they’re _kissing_. It’s not soft or tentative and Wade moans into that willing mouth, his tongue flicking out to meet Spidey’s, head straining up to join him. His tongue catches on a fang enough to bring up a well of blood. Spidey pulls back, but only for an instant, checking on him then pressing back down, a little more cautious as he licks away the blood. Deadpool’s lips are wet and tingling when Spidey’s head dips lower, trailing kisses and little licks down his chin and then mouthing at his neck. He’s pretty sure he’s about to die again, but what a sweet way to go, he’s hard and his whole body spasms from the overwhelming pleasure of it all, of being tied down and overpowered and kissed like he’s worth kissing –

Then Spidey’s grinding down on him, and somehow, despite kissing someone gross like Wade, he’s fully hard. Wade can feel his cock through the webbing and both their suits, can feel it pulse against Wade’s. Spidey shudders above him, releasing a short, soft breath of warm air against Wade’s neck. Wade’s shuddering, too. He whines and tries with everything in him to buck upward, to chase that hardness with his own, but he’s trapped there, his dick squished, confined.

“You feel good, Spidey?” he whispers, panting.

Spidey hums, his lips on his neck. The vibrations shoot straight to Wade’s dick, who moans and says a breathless, needy, “Shit, you’re so good, baby boy. Pretty little spider, wish I could touch you back, feel your skin on mine, I’d wrap my big hand around you and grip you so good, guide you right to my hole. You’d fill me up, wouldn’t you? If I asked nicely?”

Spidey lifts his head up, away from Wade’s neck. Wade moans at the loss of contact.

“Shit, sorry, sorry, I took it too far –”

But Spidey isn’t pulling away from him, isn’t leaving him wanting there. Instead, he licks his own lips, tongue swirling around one of his fangs, bites his lip until it bleeds a bit, sits there with their groins pressed together, looking down at him. He doesn’t seem to notice the blood. Just lets it leave a tiny red trail down his smooth skin and says a stilted, uncertain, “You really – you don’t think I’m – that I’m gross?”

His spider legs twitch, closing in, pulling in tightly to his back again.

Wade squirms against the webs, scoffing out a surprised, disbelieving, “Are you kidding me? First of all, that’s totally my line, _I’m_ the gross one, ask anybody and they’ll definitely tell you that between you and me, I’m the _only_ gross thing among us – you’re like, twelve levels of hot baby boy, I’m not even joking –”

And _ooh_ , he’s smiling again, that upward quirk of his lips.

Spidey says, “I don’t think you’re gross either.”

He pecks him on the lips, a chaste little peck, and moves back to his neck again, lathering it with his saliva. Wade writhes in place from all the stimulation, his lips stinging, cold in the open air, wet from Spidey’s unwavering attention. Most of all, though, those words reverberate through him, repeat over and over in his brain. Spidey’s lips quirked into that pleased smile as he says a sincere, _I don’t think you’re gross either_. Deadpool never imagined anyone would say anything like that to him, never could have prepared for how they strike a nerve inside him, light him up from the inside. It’s a gentleness he couldn’t have foreseen. Connection he doesn’t deserve. He feels his eyes welling up under the mask, closes them and throws his head back so it thumps on the floor.

This time, when those fangs prick against his skin and sink inside, he shudders through climax, completely untouched, and dies on a sigh, his whole body limp and relaxed.

-

-

-

Deadpool calls him Spidey, and he likes it.

It’s almost like a name. A real name, not just a title. When the man’s body falls limp, twitches dying down, he picks him up with his spider legs and takes him back to his own apartment, lays him down on the floor beside the pieces of particle boards that litter the whole room. He takes his time unraveling his body from the webbing, working slowly at it, trying not to pull or yank, not to cause any more harm. It’s strange handling Deadpool while he’s dead, strange to see the man without his usual animation, strange to hear the silence. But it’s also – thrilling, to _know_ he’ll come back. No one else comes back.

Once he’s freed from the webs, _Spidey_ pulls the man’s mask back down.

Then he crawls out through the window and swings away into the rain.

Weapon X will want an update by now. He’s pushed the timing too long, pushed their patience past anything he’s ever done before, but this feels like a chance. Like a chance he’s never had and never will again. He had to take it. The way Deadpool spoke to him, even before they met face to face… there was a comfort to that open familiarity, to those casual questions and easy dialogue. He could listen to Deadpool babble all day. None of the scientists talk to Spider like that, and all the agents ever do is bark orders. They never asked if he _liked_ eggs. It’s weird to think that he could have likes and dislikes. But he _must_ , because he’s discovered three likes and one dislike in the span of a day. If he focuses, he can almost still taste that rich, smooth glide of the chocolate bar Deadpool left for him. As far as he can recall, it was his first piece of chocolate.

He wants _more_.

Hope is even stranger than wanting, though. Hope burrows in despite all attempts to keep it out, despite all logic warning it to keep in check. It worms its way past his circumstances, past every memory that tells him it can’t be real. Past every memory that tells him everything can only ever get worse, not better. Never better. And it’s hope that warms his chest now, hope that’s got his pulse elevated as he swings through the city, a dark blur in the stormy night sky. He’s hoping even despite the odds. Because the odds suck. There’s no way Deadpool can figure out the code to his collar in a day. Maybe less than a day, depending on what’s about to happen. There’s no way this won’t blow up in his face. Yet hope persists. His mind feels sharper for its presence, his senses heightened.

He finds himself hoping that maybe, when they can’t get the collar off – just maybe –

Maybe Deadpool could kill him, instead. Either option feels like hope.

He tries to stamp down on that flickering hope in his chest as he nears the warehouse, tries to smother it before it has the chance to give up the whole game. If Richards catches wind of the defiance he’s already displayed – _he hasn’t disobeyed, he hasn’t, he hasn’t_ – then it’ll be over before it’s even begun. But he’s done everything they _said_ to do. He’s neutralized the threat twice over, now. It’s been enough for the collar. It’ll have to be enough for Weapon X, too.

 _Spidey_ takes a deep breath, steadies himself.

He walks into the warehouse and tries to forget that he has an almost-name, now.

He is a spider and nothing more.

_I haven’t disobeyed, I haven’t, I haven’t._

_I haven’t disobeyed, I haven’t, I haven’t._

_I haven’t disobeyed –_


	5. Joy Comes in the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter twice. Sorry that it's short. Bleh.
> 
> Thank you for commenting. Some days my story comments save my life. Y'all can just go ahead and consider yourselves superheroes. <3

5\. Joy Comes in the Morning

-

-

-

“Wade?”

[Abort, abort!]

[[Time to YEET!]]

[Why’s he just standing there?? Ooh, this is gonna hurt.]

[[YEET YEET YEET YEET]]

Deadpool freezes in place, one foot still raised mid-stride, a gloved hand on the metal doorknob. That one word resounds in his head, and the soft, wavering voice that spoke it takes him instantly back to who he used to be. He slumps, shoulders rounding forward and head ducking down as he turns and braces himself. But shit, he could never brace himself enough for the sight that greets him. Vanessa stands in the dim colorful lighting in saucy black lace, a tray of jiggling jello shots balanced on one carefully manicured hand. Her eyes are wide, black curls cascading over one petite shoulder, every curve only highlighted in the club’s shitty lighting. It hits him like a punch to the gut to see her. It must strike her the same way, because they both take a small step away from each other, almost in tandem. Her eyes glance down his body, back up again. Deadpool is in a hurry, but for a moment he can’t make himself move.

Vanessa swallows. “Why…” she starts out, and there’s a hitched breath. “Why’re you here?”

Deadpool exhales and thinks _fuck me_ with feeling. “Nice to see you too, Ness.”

Does he sound bitter? He’s trying really hard not to sound bitter. None of – _them_ was her fault. It’s all him. He’s the one who changed. He’s the one who went from being voted Sexiest Man Alive in 2010 to having the body of the creature from the black lagoon. It’s not fair to have hoped she’d stay with – _that_. It’s why he tried to stay away from her for as long as he did, back when he was hunting down Francis. During the torture sessions, the only thing that’d keep his heart beating and his brain functioning was losing himself in fantasies where he somehow got reunited with her and they had the fanciest, gaudiest most lavish wedding and then had babies together and lived happily ever after. He’d imagine her smile, her laugh, the way her skin felt against his as they moved in sync with each other. He’d picture a lazy Saturday morning with pancakes and cartoons where they’d pretend to squabble over which show to introduce their children to first, but then they’d both forget about the cartoons to agree on Star Wars and he’d give his literal immortality if those fantasies could just – could just _be real_.

But fantasies aren’t real. That’s the whole point.

What _is_ real is that Wade’s skin literally moves as the cancer fights with the healing factor, and it’s gross. So gross it even makes _Wade_ sick. Looking at him isn’t for the faint of heart or the squeamish and it was completely unrealistic for him ever to have hoped Vanessa might still love him even though he looks like animated melted wax. What _is_ real is that he’s got maybe half a day left to get that collar off Spidey before the timeline he gave him runs out, and he’s going to do it. He’s not entirely sure what’s supposed to happen after the day ends, but the urgency in Spidey’s tone didn’t make it sound like something he wants to find out. Fortunately for his eight-legged new friend, Deadpool rocks at hunting down Weapon X assholes.

Which is why he’s ended up here, at No. 5 Orange, the swanky gentleman’s club where Vanessa works. He’d found a whole handful of bright orange business cards for the place in the van parked outside those two dead goons’ apartment, which felt like a solid lead. Not even a regular frequent flyer customer ends up with that many business cards. It’d been awfully sweet of Spidey to take his corpse home, but seriously, he shoulda left him at the dead guy’s place because that would have saved a trip and some precious time. At least it gave him the chance to change into a less cummy Deadpool suit. Talk about _embarrassing_.

And it turned out he’d been on the money about this place – he’d had to bribe and threaten the bartender a little, plus chat up three hot chicks in satin knickers, but he’s hot on the trail Weapon X has been leaving around the city right under his nose this whole time, and he’s pretty sure he knows where they’ve set up shop this go around.

Which means that running into Vanessa? Worth the misery.

And ooh, looking at her now is a pure grade A dose of _torment_.

“I just thought – well, you know I work here. So why’d you come?”

“Not here for you, if you’d believe it.”

Vanessa quirks a brow. Her pasted-on smile drops, like she just realized she could let it. Someone clears their throat behind Deadpool, a dude trying to get inside the club, so he moves out of the doorway and they both shuffle awkwardly toward the bar area. Vanessa sets her jello shot tray down on the counter and leans against it, watching him. The bartender’s eyes go wide when he sees Deadpool and he pivots on the spot and hurries to the other side of the bar, and he rubs at the redness around his neck, muttering to himself. Wade barely notices, too focused on Vanessa and trying not to lean too close, but also not be too far away that they can’t hear each other speak over the thumping music and general bustle of club patrons hooting and whistling and shouting out their appreciation for the female form. Yellow and White both figured they’d run into Vanessa here. Let’s face it, Wade’s luck fucking _blows_. He hates that they were right. He hates even more that he doesn’t know what to say right now. He feels too visible despite being fully suited up, and he hates that she’s being forced to look at him all over again. He should never have come back to New York at all. She shouldn’t have to put up with seeing him pop up out of nowhere at her workplace like some creepy stalker ex –

He scratches at his cheek, hunched in on himself. “I was just here for work, actually.”

“Work?” Now both her eyebrows raise. “Not sure you’re stripper material, big guy.”

Then she freezes like she realizes what she just said, eyes wide.

“Ha, good one.” Deadpool hears himself say. “’Cuz everybody’d be throwing money at me to put my clothes back _on_ , amirite?”

Vanessa winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“Pretty sure you did, but it’s fair. I get it.”

God, this is awkward.

“God, this is awkward,” Vanessa blurts, at pretty much the same time Deadpool thinks it. She scrubs a hand down her face and when she raises her head again to look at him, her eyes are sad. Tired. She tells him she misses him, which doesn’t seem fair. He tenses. Especially because it instantly hits him in the chest, instantly raises a totally ridiculous swell of hope inside him. She _misses him_ , that’s gotta mean something, right? But he’s still as hideous he was when they broke things off, and she almost immediately switches topics to ask about the job that’s brought him here, obviously having noticed the way her words hit him. Wade exhales at the question, thinks about Spidey. He should go.

He leans a little closer to Vanessa, noticing how she leans a little away.

Deadpool tries to ignore it. He stage whispers, “I think I traumatized your bartender.”

“Who, Gary? I bet he deserved it.”

“Nah, Gair’s all right. Just needed some info… but hey, I should go. Got places to be, people to free, you know.” He waves a hand around, gesturing at random, trying so damn hard for flippant and casual. It’s hard not to feel that curl of perpetual embarrassment around her, that humiliated flush that makes his face feel warm. She knows what he looks like under the suit… she’s _barfed_ from what he looks like under the suit. It doesn’t even matter that he’s fully covered; with her eyes on him, he might as well be naked. He shuffles away from the bar, pointing to the exit with both hands. And then before she can even respond, before they can stumble through the uncomfortable, painful small talk inherent in _goodbye_ , he practically hurls himself out the doors and into the street, bumping past a group of horny well-dressed bachelors and getting into a brief drunken scuffle with a few of them when they try to fight him. They all go down with one punch, groaning and slurring, and it’s comical to see them fall down like a set of human dominos.

Deadpool calls Weas on the way to the warehouse, who sounds suitably impressed by his intel gathering, if not a little doubtful about how quickly he was able to suss out the current Weapon X headquarters. “This batch must be dumber than a box of chex mix. How sure are you you’re not walking into a trap? What if they’re expecting you? Did you ever think that maybe they’re sad about the one who got away and they’re looking to fit you with a fancy necklace too?”

Huh. That’s a good point, why hasn’t Deadpool thought about that – shit, Weasel shouldn’t have good points. But also – _shit_ , Spidey’s killed him twice already, there’s been more than enough opportunity for the super to have stuck a collar on his corpse. But he _didn’t_ … does that mean it isn’t part of the Weapon X plan, or does that mean Spidey’s rebelling in more ways than one? To cover up his stupidity for not having thought of it sooner, he oohs and aaahs into the phone and coos, “I’d look so fetch in one of those, think they’d make mine red and black?”

Weasel groans. “Stop trying to make fetch a thing. It’s never going to be a – really? Am I really quoting Mean Girls with you right now? Why am I – never mind. Just – be careful, will you? If you get killed and get collared, I’m not sure the world’s ready for an immortal super slave under questionable rule. They’d probably get you out there assassinating presidents or some shit and I think the political climate’s fucked up enough, thanks –”

“It warms my heart how much you care about me.”

“We’ve discussed the emotions thing, right? The hives?”

“Maybe I like giving you hives.”

“… that’s evil.”

As much fun as it is to torment Weasel over the phone, especially in the ass crack of dawn, he’s nearing the warehouse where all the fun’s about to happen, and a huge chunk of his plan rests in Weasel’s slimy fingers. And by plan, he means the hastily crayon-drawn action sequence where he caps many asses, rescues Spidey from said asses’ evil clutches, and makes it home in time to wire up a TV and catch the new episode of his favorite telenovela and binge eat a few hundred burritos whilst trying desperately not to think about Vanessa’s face scrunched in revulsion at the sight of him or how Spidey probably only kissed him because he’s a literal slave who thinks Deadpool can help him get free.

And of course, now he can’t help but think about it.

He couldn’t blame Vanessa for getting queasy every time she had to look at him, and he can’t blame Spidey for using what he’s got to free himself from a shitty situation. He gets it. Wade’s somehow the only mutate who’s ever gotten free from Weapon X despite the fact that they’re completely incompetent evil morons. He’s not an attractive option so much as he’s the _only_ option. It’d be pretty shitty of him to expect this to mean anything more to the super spider than a means to an end. Shit, he feels kinda sorry for him, actually. _Nobody_ should have to feel like they’ve gotta kiss his cheese grated roadkill face.

Weapon X – or whatever trap they’ve set, if this is a trap – is situated in the heart of Long Island City all the way out in Queens. It’s annoying how long it took to get here, even more annoying that nobody recognizes Deadpool in these parts, so he sticks out even more than usual. Which is saying something. He’s about a block away from his destination when he ducks into an alleyway to get all those stares off him and looks up, up, up at the side of the crumbly brick building. He might need both hands for this one, folks.

So, he finally cuts to the chase. “Did you find Domino?”

Deadpool holds the phone between his shoulder and face to free up his hands. He gets out the grappling hook and lassos it up, all while Weasel’s saying, “Yeah actually, if I hadn’t do you think I’d be wasting so much time on the phone with you? She’s a real cool chick. Won me a dozen straight runs with Buck – though she did take half the profits, but it all checks out. I’m pretty sure if she’s not supernaturally lucky, then Buck’s supernaturally _unlucky_. Either way, definitely don’t ever play her in any card game unless you enjoy feeling like a loser.”

“Still not convinced luck can be a superpower –”

“Buck’s the one who dealt the cards and even _then_ she got three straight royal flushes.”

“– yeah, okay, but it’s not even cinematic! Meanwhile, my Spidey’s got the finest ass and the most hardcore cinematic powers, I swear, if you ever see him swinging down from a fucking spider web with all his long black spidery legs out, you’ll piss yourself –”

“I sincerely hope I _never see that_.” Deadpool can just imagine Weasel’s fearful shudder at the thought. The man’s terrified of spiders. If Spidey sticks around for a while, it’s going to be the most hilarious fucking thing to get them in a room together, Deadpool _can’t wait_ – he’s halfway up the wall, now, sweating through his suit and huffing from exertion, when Weasel adds, “But also, Domino gave me your boy’s collar code, and if it’s wrong, she owes you her right kidney and her firstborn child. Like, I got that shit in writing. I’m pretty sure she’s the real deal.”

“She’d better be,” he growls out, struggling to keep the phone from splatting to the concrete below. “I can’t believe I’m trusting something this important with a self-proclaimed super I’ve never met before who claims her only power is _luck_. It’s so fucking _lame_. It’s almost like the writer couldn’t think up an actual sensical method of, oh, I dunno, hacking into their systems. This is like the hand wavy science method. I’m literally embarrassed to be in this goddamn fiction right now – and what do I owe her if she’s right? Never mind, nobody cares. I’ll give her whatever it is plus both my kidneys as interest. Gimme the code.”

“She said to try… seven.”

Deadpool’s foot slips. He yells, “Motherhugger!” as he falls a few feet, catching himself with a jerk on the rope and a hand on the lip of a brick. His phone falls much further, where it shatters on the pavement below in a clatter that makes Wade groan. Seven? Really Weasel?? Seven? A single number to unlock the leash off a murder-happy man-sized spider slave? Pulling himself the rest of the way to the rooftop, he parkours across the next few buildings and sets up across the street from Weapon X, the boxes loud and distracting in his head. What’re the odds that one single digit will unlock Spidey’s collar?

[Weasel’s useless.]

[[Won’t it be so symmetrical, you killing Spidey after he killed you twice?]]

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Deadpool protests. “If seven doesn’t work, we’ll go to plan B.”

[…]

[[… which would be…?]]

Deadpool grips the side of the roof and pops his head up to look out at the gaudy green industrial warehouse across the street. The windows are all boarded up, the boards weathered and stained, a graffitied mural of various cuss words and gang signs spattered street level. A bike is chained up on a lamppost nearby, three generic black vans parked outside. The rising sun glints off metal garage doors pulled down over shop openings along the right side of the warehouse. An old man is walking an excited little yapping dog down the street, hunched forward and letting the dog lead him. It’s a quiet morning.

Deadpool takes a deep breath. “Maximum fucking effort.”

-

-

-

[… that means there is no plan B, doesn’t it?]

-

-

-

They say joy comes in the morning. The spider can’t remember where he heard that, but the words come with a melody in his head and a gentle, sweet voice that murmurs it. He’s spent years repeating that phrase to himself when the world seemed too hard, too painful, in quiet pauses between tortures where every bone in his body feels tight and bruised. Even after his mutation showed up, Richards and his crew enjoyed hanging him up with hooks through his shoulder blades, watching him squirm. The spider legs fascinated them, and he was studied extensively after they grew. They’d hook him up to the ceiling and stretch his legs out, apply various forces to test their durability. They’ve been broken too many times to count. Spider comforts himself with that phrase through it all, keeping it in his head where it’s safe. He’s murdered people for Weapon X, _so many people_ , young and old and in between, people who witness too much, good people, horrible people… so many people.

Three children he’ll never forget, who _screamed_ when they saw him. Anne, George, Cole.

Joy comes in the morning.

Some nights he’s wondered _which_ morning, because so far they’ve all been painful.

He stands silent and still as they inspect him. Joe yanks off Spider’s mask and googles, flooding his senses with the bright lights. Only experience keeps him from flinching, but his hands clench at his sides, knuckles white under the gloves. Joe makes a noise of disgust at the sight of him, a slur about monsters, then he’s chucking the mask and googles onto a table and taking a flashlight to Spider’s solid black eyes. He clicks it on and off a couple times, testing his sensitivity, which feels worse right now from lack of sleep and wearing the googles too long. His teeth grind from the effort of not lashing out at Joe, who’d be way too easy to squish, his muscles tense, ready to spring. The flashlight flickers again and he does flinch this time, flinches back and away from the bright spots in his vision, clenches his eyes tight. The room spins.

Joe must not approve. A zinging zap charges into his brain.

Spider moans, twitches, then falls on his face.

“Fucking worthless little – get up, ugh, can’t believe I got stuck on _spider_ duty, this is so gross,” Joe mutters to himself as he reaches down and yanks Spider back up, gets him on his feet again. Spider’s shaking, now, from the collar having been activated, can feel the electric pulses along every nerve, making him twitchy and breathless.

“Well?” Joe’s saying, demanding. It’s hard to focus. He squints, hones in on the movement of Joe’s mouth. He’s asking for a report, says Spider must have failed since a collared Deadpool hasn’t been brought in yet, and what’s been taking so long, anyway –

Spider’s tongue feels heavy. He slurs. “I – neutralized – the – threat.”

Joe waits, expectant, but there’s nothing else Spider can say.

He shouldn’t have said that much, it’s probably the worst thing he could have given away, but – those little tendrils in his brain had him answering before he could think about it, responding instinctively to the word _report_. Spider’s been so focused on fulfilling the spoken objective and _believing_ that he’s fulfilling it that he couldn’t have responded any other way. He did what they told him to do, he did, _he did_ –

“… shit, I told them you were too stupid for this job, I told them –”

“I – neutralized – the – threat,” Spider repeats, stilted and slow.

Joe cuffs him on the head and curses again. “Fucking defect piece of – what _exactly_ does that mean? Did you collar Deadpool or didn’t you? Where is he?”

Spidey’s ears are ringing. Outwardly, he keeps very still, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, fingers still twitching. His head hurts. Not that Joe’s strong enough to have hurt him, but it jostled his already spiraling senses, and he feels like he’s splitting apart at the seams. He hoped to have been able to stall for a day, but at this rate he’s not even going to be able to give the merc hours. God, he _hates this collar_ – he inhales through his nose and says, fighting against it all the while, incapable of controlling his mouth, those pulses in his brain persistent, truth, truth, speak truth, answer the direct questions, _you must_ – “I – killed – him. T-twice. Did not – did not collar him. Deadpool is – current location unknown, last seen dead in his apartment, 9195 Granger Street –”

Joe grabs him around the throat and squeezes. Spider’s eyes are wide and wet, vision blurred, but the man’s face is close enough to see the clenched jaw and enraged splotchy cheeks, his hard and disbelieving eyes, “You mean to tell me,” Joe says, and his breath reeks of stale food. He shakes Spider by this throat, then lets go and grabs the front of his suit instead, yanking him hard out of the room and toward cell B, toward the ice box in the corner of the cell. Spider stumbles along in tears, forced into obedient stillness despite how hard he wants to squirm away, despite how much everything inside him itches to lash out, to run away, to kill the grunt who’s got his rough hands on him, “you killed him but didn’t collar him? How the fuck is that possible! Your collar would have –”

“O-objective – met –” he stutters. “Neutralized – neutralized the –”

Joe shakes him again and yells in frustration. “Are you kidding me, you purposefully disobeyed because the asshole who gave you the order, what, wasn’t specific enough? I _told_ Richards you were – shit, shit, _shit_ , this is the _worst_ mission you coulda flopped on, do you know that? Do you have any idea what you’ve – shit, I thought we’d beaten this rebellion outa you _years_ ago. You got a whole lotta hurt coming for this, get the fuck in – shit, I’m gonna die, I’m dead, I’m so dead –”

The spider wants to resist, wide-eyed as his muscles strain to withstand the hard shove toward the ice box, aptly named for the ice water it houses, though he’s always thought it’s less a box and more a coffin. He hates it, has always hated it – his body doesn’t thermoregulate, the cold isn’t _painful_ , it’s – an empty succumbing, it puts his body into an almost-death. Everything slows to stillness, his mind, his limbs, his awareness of the world – it’s all sluggish like molasses. Other mutates who are more human, less spider, their bodies shiver uncontrollably and their lips turn blue. They feel the biting sting of the coldness, the pain of it. He’s watched a lot of the weaker ones die from the cold, seen a lot of freezing wet corpses dragged out, limp and listless. It’s become his – housing unit, almost, since Weapon X learned how it slows him down. He likes thinking they throw him in it so often because he gives them so much trouble. He’s easier to handle when he’s slow and bordering between alive and dead. More compliant. But he hates it. Hates the cold. Hates how empty he is when he’s in it, how pointless everything feels. If he’s going to be almost dead, he’d rather be all the way dead. He hates how trapped he feels inside the box, that moment of panic when they slam the lid shut and leave his body shutting down alone in the dark.

Joe commands Spider to open the hatch on the ice box himself.

Mechanical, he obeys.

Sometimes they command him to step into the water himself, to submerge himself, and that’s hard. Other times, like now, when they’re angry enough and need to take it out on him, they’ll shove him in themselves. He has only enough time to hold his breath, and his spider legs flail behind him, trying to catch him on the lip of the box and failing when Joe stabs them with a cattle prod, one after another. His face slams into the water first. He feels the shock of it, the jolting current from the prod on his legs as they’re shoved in after him. His senses get blown so wide from stimulation that he seizes, choking on water as his body spasms and thrashes. The dull, distant thump of the lid slamming shut reverberates along the steel walls. His body flails in the dark until he’s able to turn himself around and come up for air in the tiny air pocket available for breathing, and he gasps in panicked breaths, hands coming up to push at the lid, scrambling for purchase. He’s been in this thing countless times, but every time feels brand new, he hates it, hates it – the panic is there even as everything else slows down, his body reacting to the cold, shutting down slowly, his senses backing off and his synapses slackening. The seizure subsides in pulses.

There’s enough consciousness still to wonder about Deadpool, but only vaguely. He can’t form coherent thoughts, or emotions, or specifics. Can’t wrap his head around what exactly he should be thinking. But he does think _Deadpool_.

After that, it’s nothing more than a blurred litany of _Joy comes in the morning_.

_Joy comes in the morning._

_Joy comes in the morning._

-

-

-

Spidey doesn’t know it, but it’s not joy that comes, that morning.

It’s Deadpool.


	6. The Bowels of an Underground Evil Organization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for very brief, not detailed mention of non-con. Also, violence. Because Deadpool.
> 
> Thanks for your comments, I love them and you. It makes me so happy to have readers. <3

6\. The Bowels of an Underground Evil Organization

-

-

-

Deadpool figured he’d stake out the place from the rooftop across the street first, because that’s the smart way to go about this, but it turns out there’s not much to stake out. The windows are all boarded up, and nobody is coming in or out. He pulls out a red crayon and a scrap wrinkled piece of paper from a pouch on his belt and starts doodling a few minutes into the stake out, bored and fidgety but willing to wait a minute longer to see if there’s any movement. He’s already assessed that the run-down building has four stories above ground and that the closed storefronts beside it are attached at the second level, so it’d be easy to enter a window on the second floor from the adjacent rooftop. But entering on the second floor would mean the potential for bad guys both above and below him, coming from all directions. Not exactly the smartest choice.

Weasel would chew him out for being reckless.

[We shouldn’t be too reckless this time, what with those collars in the picture.]

[[You’d make a _horrible_ Weapon X slave.]]

[… or a really, really good one.]

[[Same thing, bro.]]

[Ain’t that the truth. Maybe you should play this smart.]

Deadpool guffaws as he doodles. Spidey in crayon-red is hot, as it happens. “Since when have I ever played anything smart? Where’ve you been my whole origin story, White, _honestly_ , that’s like asking Jack Black not to Jack Black. Or suggesting Black Widow _not_ use her mighty thighs to crush her opponents’ heads like walnuts. In fact, you’ve just convinced me that what I really need to do right now is stay on brand and enter through that second-floor window like the idiot we all know and love. The brand is important.”

[Is the brand as important as being free?]

[[Why are we being voices of reason, White?]] Yellow’s thought-voice is high-pitched and whiny.

[I have no idea, but _I hate it_.]

It’s weird that something’s got the voices talking sense, even stranger that something’s got them spooked. And the worst part of all is that it’s Weapon _fucking_ X that’s got them spooked.

[Don’t lump me in with Yellow – _he’s_ the spooked one!]

[[Oh cut the shit.]]

“Feel free to sit this one out. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to open your eyes.”

[… can we do that??]

[[Of course, we can’t! He’s being an asshole.]]

“Scaredy cats,” Wade singsongs.

He’s giving them a hard time – payback’s a bitch like that – but Wade guesses their caution makes sense. He hates Weapon X, sure, but White and Yellow were _born_ from them. They came into existence around the same time his healing factor showed up, when he was having all the oxygen sucked out of him and his cells were shriveling up and he _couldn’t breathe,_ strapped into that clear coffin from hell. The very first time he heard Yellow’s voice, it was a wailing, choked scream that roared in his ears, yelling when Wade physically couldn’t through all the oxygen deprivation. White wasn’t much better; if he remembers right, White’s first words to him were a panicked, _I want to die, let me die!_ He might poke fun of Weapon X goons and kid about how stupid they are, but honestly, it’s all bluster to cover up his own discomfort at the memories.

Well, that, and they’re actually pretty stupid.

It doesn’t take long to jump down to street level and climb up to the dirty rooftop across the street. The dogwalker had already disappeared around a corner, and nobody else seems to be walking these sidewalks, although cars pass in a steady stream. There aren’t any cameras that he can see, no surveillance of the perimeter at all, and he’s yanking the board off the second floor window and shimmying the fogged-up, crusty glass open all in the span of a single sentence. The window’s locked, sure, and it sticks from disuse, but there’s a crack that runs down the center, and he uses it to knock some of the glass out, reach through to unlock it, and then heave it up. Then he’s putting one leg over the windowsill and rolling inside.

He rolls straight into a stack of boxes, sends them scattering.

“Oops!”

[ _Shhhhh_! This isn’t stealthy at all! What are you doing??]

“No need to panic, nobody’s even – oh, hello!” He waves at a muscled dude who appears at the open doorway of the dusty storage room he rolled into. But of course, a gun’s already drawn, and of course the man instantly empties the full clip as soon as he spots an intruder. If this were any other evil organization, he might have gone for a theatrical dive away from the spray of bullets. Because it’s Weapon X, Deadpool doesn’t even bother dodging. Instead, he charges toward the dude, enjoying the progression of fear on his chiseled, thick face. He doesn’t much enjoy the flood of pain and endorphins as he’s hit, but the guy must not have been debriefed on Deadpool because he doesn’t even aim for the head. Deadpool’s fist wraps around the gun, his other hand coming up to grab Mister Idiot Grunt One by his well-pressed suit collar and fling him into the nearest wall. He thuds so hard against the concrete that his skull cracks. Yellow and White both won’t stop yelling about how noisy he’s being.

What _hypocrites_.

But they were probably right ( _shh_ , what? he didn’t think that, no way), because there’s a sudden flood of rando grunt bad guys that spill out from both directions of the hallway. Deadpool steps over cracked-head guy and unsheathes both katanas, getting to work as he cuts a bloody swathe through their hoards. There isn’t enough time or space for a witty repartee, just people coming at him one after another after another. He’s grabbed from behind by frantic, determined arms, so he plants his feet and throws the guy over his shoulder and into a few more guys, who grunt as they topple into each other. Deadpool stabs the nearest one in the chest, then pulls out Bea to catch another on the upswing. Arthur gets her workout in too, slicing through flesh in a macabre little dance as he twirls her through the air. It’s a mess of blood and bodies and bullet casings within the span of mere minutes.

In other words, it’s _fucking fantastic_.

He’s feeling giddy and high from the fight (can he call it a fight? they’re making it too easy on him, where’s the _challenge_?) when the flood dissipates and everything gets quiet. He sheathes his katanas and switches them out for his twin desert eagles. The walls are painted red, and he has to trudge through the dozen or so bodies in the cramped little hallway to reach the stairwell. Historically speaking, down is usually the way to go to find the bowels of an underground evil organization, so he picks down, whistling as he holds onto the sticky old handrails and skips down the stairs.

The first floor is all empty concrete, completely vacant, just one giant graffiti-tagged warehouse.

But there’s a grate in the center of the empty space.

Deadpool pulls it up with a scraping echo against the concrete floor, the sound like nails down a chalkboard and cringey as fuck. It’d been made to look like some sort of flood prevention drain, but it opens up into a neat and tidy little stairwell that disappears into darkness. He’s expecting more rando grunt bad guys to cook up some more fun, or else maybe even a mutate slave or two to fight. He’s half expecting Spidey to show up at some point, half expecting to dance with the fellow for real this time, since he can’t let himself die in a Weapon X factory. The thought of a real match between them, of the adrenaline and the parried back and forth, of the sweaty bodies and serrated steel… Deadpool was kind of looking forward to it. Spidey seems geared to fight at a distance, all evasive maneuvers and long-range web traps, a flexibility that lets him leap away when the going gets tough, but those legs for days make him dangerous even at close range. If Deadpool could avoid the webs and get him in close, a fight would be the perfect chance to try out that dumb single-digit code…

But when he tromps down the dark stairwell, the air gets stale with human waste.

The smell hits him before the sight does.

And of course he’s obnoxious about it, one hand with a gun in it coming up to hold the back of his hand over his masked nose, making gagging noises and babbling up a storm about sewers and shit as he finally comes to a landing and – then he sees them.

People.

Or – what’s left of people. Strapped to tables, listless and sweaty, all bloody in different places. The nearest to the stairwell – a girl, young, too young, _too young_ – has her dirty face pointed at him, mouth slack, eyes just – gone, torn clean out of her head, wide and empty sockets, bloody and grotesque. Everything slows down for Deadpool in that moment, his typical manic energy and the antsy anticipation that’s been building this whole time immediately still. The boxes are silent as he walks to the girl, touches a gloved hand to her cold, clammy skin. She isn’t wearing any clothing at all. No pulse. Deadpool finds a dirty sheet on one of the worktables nearby and covers her body with it. It falls, gentle and soft, over her. One after another, he checks them. A silent, jaw-clenched parade from room to room. Dead, dead, mangled and dead.

In one room, though, it’s worse.

Because these ones are – alive. Sort of.

Two workers in lab coats are sleeping behind desks, all soft snores as they rest without care in the middle of a torture chamber. One man is dangling from hooks that are – that are hooked through his back, his dirt-darkened toes barely scraping the ground, arms anchored to chains in the ground on either side. There’s a box over his head, a sort of crate, and he’s swaying, soft muffled moans coming out at odd intervals. Four other people are strapped to tables or in their own little personal hells. One of them, Deadpool notices instantly, is trapped inside that damn glass coffin he knows too well, all silent gasps and wide, bulging eyes. Two others are missing various limbs and are staring through vacant eyes into space. None of the sorry bastards notice Deadpool arrive. He wishes he’d killed the grunts upstairs slower. Wishes he hadn’t given them fast, easy outs. At the same time, what if Spidey came back here? What if he’s… what if he’s here somewhere right now? Deadpool should be focusing on that, should focus on finding Spidey and freeing him from that damn collar first.

Then they can kill the rest of these assholes slow.

But he’s still – there’s this rage that’s roared to life inside. Deadpool makes sure the two lab coats are awake before he kills them. They don’t deserve to die in their sleep. He yanks one up and off his chair by his coat. The man is instantly awake, wide-eyed and letting out a surprised half-exclamation that’s cut off by a bullet to the face. The other guy startles off his chair at the sound and scrambles to his feet, clearly still half-asleep and shaken. Deadpool stands still over the body of the dead lab coat and watches the live one grab a scalpel off his desk and brandish the thing at him.

Deadpool lets him get close enough to stab the scalpel into his side.

The man freezes and stares at his mask.

Slowly, Deadpool reaches up and grips the man’s wrist, twisting the scalpel deeper into himself in the process. The man gasps out a pained grunt as Deadpool tightens his hand around his wrist and then snaps it to the side, the pain of the break taking the man to his knees in front of him, falling into his dead friend. He coos around the man’s whimpers, “Bet you like that, huh? Does pain get you off? Or is it only other people’s pain? Eh, tomayto, tomahto, amirite?”

“P-please, I don’t –”

Deadpool reaches down to jab the shaking dude on the nose with a finger. “You gotta realize nothing you say’s gonna work, right? You might as well already be dead, bub. I just figured I’d let you live long enough to realize you’re about to die, because you’re an asshole who deserves that kinda thing.”

Clearly desperate, the guy lunges for the scalpel that’s sticking out of Deadpool’s side with the hand that isn’t broken yet and pushes the metal in hard, until only a sliver of the handle pokes out of his flesh. Deadpool doesn’t feel the pain of it slicing into a kidney, doesn’t feel anything at all except pissed off. His glove comes back wet and slick with blood when he wiggles his fingers in beside the scalpel and pulls it out of himself, Lab Coat watching through wide, desperate eyes on the floor in front of him. He takes the bloody scalpel and reaches down to hold the pointy end close to Lab Coat’s left eye.

Lab Coat very carefully doesn’t flinch, though his eyes blink and tear up as he stares at the little weapon that’s mere inches away from blinding him or, with enough pressure, skewering his brain. “W-what d-do you want? Anything, I’ll g-give anything –”

“I mostly just want you to die, so –”

“P-please! I have a family!”

Oh, that’s _rich_. Deadpool never begged like this, never gave them the satisfaction, but Weapon X had known about Vanessa either way, hadn’t they? Never stopped them from laughing at his torture sessions, never stopped them from trying to turn him into a super slave and selling him off. They didn’t care about families. The only reason they were taking homeless people instead of just any old civilian was because they didn’t want anybody filing missing persons reports. It had nothing to do with them not wanting to hurt people with _families_ and everything to do with wanting to prevent a paper trail. But now’s as good a time as any to see what this asshole knows, so he spends a few minutes interrogating him. Just some light maiming, nothing as bad as what the man’s likely inflicted on way less deserving individuals. Oh, but he does enjoy the screams.

It’s when Deadpool asks about Spidey that the fun ends.

The man’s brow furrows. He stutters through his pain, one eye a bloodied, oozing mess. “Why – h-how d’you know about t-that little sl-slut?”

It’s Deadpool’s turn to freeze.

“Are we talking about the same eight-legged spider person here?” he asks, faux casual.

“O-only one of those monsters, th-thank fuck. W-why –”

Deadpool tsks and shoots him in the foot. “I’m sorry,” he says over the man’s screams, “but when did I give you the impression that _you_ could ask _me_ questions? Because you can’t. In case the bullet wasn’t clear. What you _can_ do is tell me everything you know about my spider friend, starting with _why the fuck you just called him a slut_?”

Wade thought he knew rage. When Colossus cockblocked him and let Francis get away, there’d been some anger. When Weapon X took Vanessa, there’d been rage. He didn’t realize until this moment that he could feel a rage stronger than that one. His vision goes screwy, all black around the edges, Lab Coat’s words going in one ear as if from an incredible distance. It’s a bit of an out of body experience, to feel such a rush of visceral anger at the same time as his mind blanks out. Lab Coat doesn’t even get to keep talking. His face shows an increasing level of panic, which is probably because Wade feels so murderous. Perhaps it’s visible through the mask, or else visible in the sharp stillness that’s come over his body, like a snake coiled up to strike. He should have listened to whatever else Lab Coat had to say, and he meant to listen to it, meant to catalogue all the details and file them away for later. He’s singing like a canary, too, blabbing every little secret this shithole’s ever tried to keep. It’d have been smarter to listen to it.

Instead, somehow, he crushes the dude’s windpipe with one hand.

After that, Wade tries to free the lab rats, but they’re all blank and lifeless, or else begging for him to kill them, there’s nothing to go back to, they’re in so much pain, they just need it all to end – and well, nobody’s ever considered Wade a hero. It turns out, this is probably why. This could easily have been one of those four or five moments that define a hero, or whatever that asshat Colossus kept droning on and on about. A hero would have saved these guys no matter what their own opinions were about it. A hero would have reasoned that they’re lifeless lumps now because they’ve been freshly tortured for however long they’ve been here, but that time heals all wounds. The heroes would have saved them because where there’s life, there’s hope. Where there’s life, there’s the hope for eventual recovery.

But Deadpool’s not a hero.

He’s been where they are, and he _knows_ –

There’s no _recovery_ from this.

And hope? Hope cuts deeper than serrated steel.

The younger man in the glass coffin gasps as Wade yanks the thing open, the veins in his neck and face bulging from the sudden barrage of oxygen. He removes the straps that tie him down, and the man instantly lists forward into Wade’s arms, who catches him as lightly as he can, joins him on the floor, and tries to tell him he’s getting him out of here. But the man moans, shaking, and reaches up a weak hand to clutch at Deadpool’s arm, mumbling that he just wants to die, he just wants to go to sleep, he just wants it all to be over, he’s got no one and nothing, please, he’s crying, please, _please, please_. His mask sticks to his face from the tears as he shushes him, coos that everything’s going to be all right. One of the men missing both arms and one leg is crying, too, but he won’t stop thanking Deadpool, who brushes the man’s ratty, wet hair off his forehead and tells him everything’s going to be all right. It turns out they all want to die. None of them have anything or anybody to live for, they’re all mutilated, they’re all – desperate.

Deadpool makes it fast for them.

His chest feels tight. It’s hard to breathe. He yanks the mask off outside that room, hands on his knees, breathing hard and fast. He feels like he’s coming apart at the seams, but his boxes aren’t speaking up to stitch him back together with sarcastic quips and petty insults, and he’s alone in the silence of this decaying underground torture chamber, utterly alone with the knowledge that terrible people like Weapon X will always exist, they’ll always be in the world somewhere, it’s not possible to kill them all – he can’t breathe, _he can’t breathe_ –

[– hey, no, hey, what the hell, I’m not even sure what to do right now –]

[[Big guy’s falling apart.]]

[You don’t say! Maybe we should get outa this dump and find something happy.]

[[Big guy needs tacos and a nice mindless Netflix binge.]]

[And Spidey! Spidey was awesome, we need to find him, remember? He kissed you! And was trying to save you from getting one of those collars on you, he was a total badass rebel for you! You gotta breathe, man, it’s making me feel – I feel like _I_ can’t breathe, oh God –]

[[Don’t you start, too! I’m surrounded by pussies –]]

[– Oh God oh God _oh God_ –]

“Christ, you guys are no help at all!” Wade gasps out, a hand on his chest, heart beating wildly as the boxes feed off his panic and start going crazy themselves. This is about the time where he’d be killing himself to reset if he weren’t in an underground Weapon X lair right now. But he _is_ in an underground Weapon X lair right now, so instead, he holds the mask in two white-knuckled grips, takes a few dozen deep breaths, and then pulls it back down over his head. He thinks about Spidey. None of the bad stuff. He’ll panic all over again if – he can _feel_ the panic creeping back in as his mind wanders into what that Lab Coat had been saying. _Pull it back, pull it back_ – Wade thinks about Spidey’s little smile, thinks about the way he straddled him, him saying that Wade isn’t gross, that he _wants_ to kiss him. His matter of fact, simple innocence when he said _I’ve seen your skin._ Like it doesn’t bother him at all. If Wade hadn’t felt Spidey’s own arousal, he’d have called bullshit, but he did, he’d been _aroused by Wade_. And how is that possible? How? Vanessa _loved_ him, and even she had to keep her eyes closed just to tolerate him –

White was right about one thing – they need to find Spidey.

He’s planning on turning this place into rubble, so he’s gotta make sure Spidey’s not here first.

The place tunnels underground at least a few miles out, a whole network of dank prison cells and mutilated corpses in various states of decay. Deadpool barely smells the stench of it all, too lost in his own head and in the boxes screaming completely unhelpful things in it. Besides those two lab coats, the underground seems entirely bereft of employees or living people at all. He checks every cell, every corner, every square inch. Spidey’s good at hiding. It’s hard to be sure he’s not here somewhere, so Wade’s as loud as he can be during the whole walkthrough, calling Spidey’s name and dialoguing his entire plan to blow the place up as he goes. It’s comforting that at least he can’t _feel_ Spidey’s presence like he had back when the spider dude was tailing him. Maybe he never came back here last night, maybe he’d had another plan to stall this whole thing, maybe…

Deadpool climbs back up through to the ground floor, uncertain.

He’s _itching_ to blow this place up, but –

He checks the upper floors, first. Floor one is completely empty, still, and two is littered with bodies and a whole swarm of flies, the rancid odor of death cooking in the heat of the midday sun. He spends some time on floor three, which mostly looks like more prison cells, but three computers are set up in one and while he’s not the best hacker in the world, he can at least take information straight from a few hard drives. They aren’t even encrypted. It feels a little pathetic that these are his immortal enemies, an evil group that doesn’t even encrypt their test subject files. He finds a whole file on Spidey on computer two, labeled only spider.pps1750. Unless they’ve got more spider people on the payroll, it’s gotta be about his new buddy. He’s not sure he _wants_ to see what’s in the thing, at least not here, _not now_ , so he saves it along with the rest on a thumb drive he keeps in a pouch in his utility belt. There are so many files, though, that he has to delete all the stuff he’d been keeping on the thumb drive to fit it all, which absolutely wasn’t porn, no sirree.

Oh, who cares? It was totally porn.

Four other cells exist on floor three, but they’re all empty except for long, coffin-shaped boxes along the far back walls of each. The cell doors are all locked tight, so Deadpool gets out some aggression on them, kicking them until he’s breathing hard and the boxes are laughing at him and he breaks a foot on the metal bars. Pain feels kinda good right now, honestly, and the bones heal before he’s even gotten out his trusty little lockpicking kit. He’s not sure why he feels the need to look in all these coffin-boxes, except that they’re big enough to fit people and there’s a chance he’ll find some more living subjects in them, because Weapon X sucks. More likely, it won’t be living people he’ll find in them, but whatever.

The first one he opens is cold to the touch and has a padlock on the box, which he breaks off with impressive force. Yanking the lid off, he’s momentarily transported back to when he was one of their torture victims, because it’s a box full of ice water and there’s a cold, dead corpse floating face down in it. _Shit_.

He remembers that ice feeling, the cold that _burns_ and the dark and the _panic_ –

[– _oh God oh God oh God_ –]

He expects much the same from the second box. This one’s cold to the touch, too, obviously another ice box, and locked with a different, way less breakable padlock. After a couple useless tries, Deadpool shoots this one off, the ping of the bullet ricocheting off the lock loud in the stillness of this cold dead place. Bracing himself for another _Titanic_ stand-in, he yanks the lid off, looks inside, and –

Shit _shit shit shit_ , he’s been here this whole time?

[Is he?] White seems to be holding his breath.

[[He’s dead! He’s dead and you’ve been here dicking around this whole time!]] Yellow, however, is immediately hysterical.

[You killed him!] White accuses.

Deadpool scrambles to pull Spidey out of the ice water, grabbing him and hauling him up and out, them both landing on the ground cold and wet and slippery. The chill of Spidey’s still form seeps into Deadpool’s bones as though _he_ were in that water instead, and he whines low in the back of his throat, immediately ripping off a glove and pressing his fingertips to Spidey’s neck, feeling for a pulse, whispering useless, crooning assurances to the unconscious ice-cold person he’d been so desperate to save. This _whole time_ , he’s been in that water this _whole time_ , while Deadpool went down instead of up, and if he dies, it’s on him, he’d promised Spidey he’d save him but he’s – but he’s –

Spidey’s so still and so cold, but a pulse is there, just barely, so slow he almost misses it.

Deadpool releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, slumping in relief.

“Shit, baby boy, are you ever _not_ gonna scare the bejesus outa me?”

[He’s not out of the woods, dick for brains. Warm him up!]

[[He’s not even conscious, but he’s also not blue in the face or shivering or anything.]]

[We should get him naked, that suit’s keeping him cold.]

[[Yea sure, because you’ve definitely got only innocent intentions there.]]

[Shut up!] White’s sudden hiss makes even Wade wince. [You _heard_ Lab Coat, they used Spidey for way more than his superpowers. I swear if you even think about him in a sexy way I’m gonna _scream for the next ten years straight_ , don’t tempt me –]

[[… yeah. Shit’s fucked up. There’s no way he actually _wanted_ to kiss you, anyway. He was just doing what he’s been made to do, following orders, all that. Betcha he _hated_ having to kiss you as much as Ne-]]

“Don’t say her name!” Stupid White and Yellow, like the thought hadn’t crossed Wade’s mind the moment that fucking tool called Spidey a slut. Of course he’d been all lick-lick kiss-kiss to Wade. He’d been conditioned to – _Christ_. Despite Deadpool being the one tied up and helpless both times, he can’t help but realize how _Spidey_ had been the helpless one, forced into contact with him there’s no way he actually wanted. Wade can’t help but feel like he took advantage of Spidey, getting off on his touches like that. What kind of monster did that make him, anyway? To get off on a slave being forced to kiss him? What kind of monster – “You guys are fucking useless, just shut up and let me handle this!"

Now’s not the time to spiral again.

Spidey weighs more than his smaller frame would have him expect, and his spider legs prevent him from being able to carry him bridal style. Those black, fuzzy tendrils hang from his back, limp and floppy, and he doesn’t want to squish them or mess with them. Aren’t spider legs easy to break? Deadpool takes off the katanas and winds their shoulder straps around a loop at his belt, freeing his back to carry Spidey piggyback style. Still his spider legs trail to the ground behind them like a gothic style veil. He has to walk hunched forward to keep him from sliding off his back, and Spidey’s head is limp in the crook of his shoulder, soft breaths on Deadpool’s neck. Not that Deadpool can feel them through the suit, though he can feel the icy chill of him pressed against his back. They’re both soaked before they reach ground level. Luckily, it’s hot outside, though maybe too hot? He’s pretty sure you aren’t supposed to go from frozen to heat too soon, but shit, what does he know? And what other option is there?

The ground level doors are boarded up from the outside.

Deadpool struggles for a minute to reach a grenade and pull the pin without jostling Spidey, standing a safe distance away before chucking it at the door. The boom hurls debris and smoke, sets off a car alarm on the street somewhere, but Spidey remains blissfully unaware, limp and still as Deadpool walks them through the wreckage and tries not to attract too much attention along the sidewalk. It’s a losing battle, though, because a handful of people are stopped and staring at them, wide-eyed and scared, four of them already on their phones and giving a rushed, confused description of the explosion and the two strange characters who emerged from it. Who’d have thought that you couldn’t set off a grenade in the heart of Long Island without people getting all report-happy?

Deadpool pauses on the sidewalk, staring at all the civilians. Traffic is stopped in front of the warehouse, drivers and passengers all rubber-necking it to look at them.

 _Christ_. They’re in fucking _Long Island_. He doesn’t even have his phone.

[We are _not_ walking all that way, call a fucking cab.]

[[Who’s gonna stop for us?? We look – we look – well, just look at us!]]

[Spidey’s spider legs are a pretty unusual sight, you gotta admit.]

[[Not to mention the red and black walking armory who’s carrying him.]]

Deadpool rolls his eyes under the mask. It doesn’t take long to assess the situation and come up with a perfectly reasonable plan. This isn’t the first time he’s wondered why White and Yellow are such idiots. It won’t be the last time, either. It’s no wonder Wade’s the one in control. They wouldn’t last a day in the world without him.

[… huh, I guess you do have a pretty reasonable plan…]

[[Onward! To the dead cave!]]

-

-

-

His perfectly reasonable plan _might_ have involved carjacking one of those nosy bystanders’ vehicles at gunpoint, two subsequent high-speed chases wherein he had to ditch that vehicle for a less conspicuous option, a whole mess of property damage in the process of losing that pesky helicopter tail with that fucking spotlight…

Okay so, it hadn’t been foolproof.

Loads of fun, though.

-

-

-

_Joy comes in the morning, joy comes in the morning – Deadpool?_

Consciousness comes in spurts. In the moments where he’s in and out, he feels surrounded by loud noises, harsh jostling, sporadic chaos like a faraway riddle. But his brain feels like it’s still underwater, all slow and sluggish, his body too heavy to move, his limbs like bricks. The cold recedes in spurts, too, drawn away by living warmth. It might have been minutes or hours later when the Kevlar suit pulls away from his skin, off his arms, down and off his torso, the sticky slide of the wet material shuffling over goosebumps. He doesn’t sense danger. Maybe he can’t yet, his senses still hibernating. His eyelids feel too heavy to open. Whatever they’re doing to him, it’s not – disturbing. There isn’t any pain. His consciousness floats on a wave, gentle and unconcerned.

Wakefulness, however, happens all at once.

His heartrate gradually speeds up with the warmth, until all the sudden he’s back online, gasping upright and flailing as though he’s still in the water. For a moment it feels like he is, still, there’s a weight holding him down and he can’t breathe – but his flailing has the weight falling off his chest and he realizes it was just a mound of blankets. Blankets? He’s leaning over the side of the bed to panic-vomit before he’s even fully aware of his surroundings, choking up water and acidic stomach bile, the smell instantly grounding as he blinks tears out of his eyes and returns to his body, shaking hands clenching onto one of the many, many blankets. He’s naked under them all, so he pulls one of the red fluffy ones up to his chin, curling up under it. He’s in a bedroom that’s got all sorts of posters strewn up on the walls, curtains drawn tight that block out the obvious sun that’s streaming in just a hair from where the curtains trail to the floor. A dresser is along the far wall, a giant screen set atop it, piles of DVDs stacked beside it. A laundry hamper is overflowing next to a closed closet, dirty clothes that smell stale from this distance in little piles around the hamper, the faint metallic whiff of gunpowder and blood. The smell reminds him of Deadpool, relaxes the panic to a mere background fuzz. Has he ever been anywhere so – lived-in? He’s on a mattress, all soft and springy, sheets silky smooth against his legs. The whirr of a space heater turned on high blasts warm air at the bed from where it’s plugged up on a nearby nightstand. The air rustles his hair. He’s not wearing a mask. Deadpool isn’t here, but he must have – did it – did he actually –

A shaking hand moves to press against the collar.

It’s not –

He gasps, then, both hands feeling at his neck. His exposed neck. There’s not – the collar’s not –

It’s gone.

It’s – _gone_.

 _It’s gone_.

Through the sudden barrage of tears, vision a blurry, spotted mess, he sees a piece of paper crumpled in the ocean of blankets and reaches for it, smoothing out the page and feeling the raised waxy curves of childlike handwriting against his fingertips. It’s a note written in red crayon with a hasty doodle scribbled in the margins, a mini Deadpool that’s cuddling a giant spider, hearts all around them. He chokes out a laugh and rubs his thumb over the image, something like a smile on his face at the sight. It takes a few minutes before he can see well enough through the tears to read the words, and when he does, he’s crying all over again.

_SPIDEY,_

_It’s me! Your friendly neighborhood Deadpool! First off you are completely safe! There’s a fat stack of DVDs beside the TV if you wanna pick one out and pop it in. Take a load off! (the bathroom’s right outside the bedroom, first door to the left) I had to go take care of some things, but don’t worry because I’ll be back with SNACKS. All the snacks including but not limited to enough s’mores supplies to last us through the winter, hot chocolate, and chips and salsa! Not the mild shit, either. I’ve got the salsa hookup, don’t even worry about it._

_Also, I’ll bring back some real food. Probably need that first. Soup! Warm soup!_

_And then s’mores._ _:)_

_As an aside, I hope you can read! I also hope you don’t even wake up until after I get back, so you won’t need to read! It sucks to wake up alone after almost being frozen-dead, amirite? Ok I’m going now so I can get back to your ~~cute~~ face! Toodleloo, toots!_

_XOXOXOXOXO,_

_Deadpool_

Deadpool just – left him here. Unchained, uncollared. Told him about a bathroom that’s outside this room, as though he were free to leave it, to explore. He’s not cold, far from it, now, but he can’t stop the tremors in his hands. He wrings them together under the blankets, Deadpool’s note staring up at him from the bed, crinkled and undoubtedly _happy_. Even the spider has a drawn-on smiley face, like something a kid would draw.

Time slips away in the unreality of this strange space.

He cries more, silent tears and snotty sniffles.

At some point, however, he fixates on one little thing that’s got him panicking all over again. He’s free now, maybe, whatever that means, but he owes Deadpool for it. There’s a price for all this – kindness. He _wants_ to pay it. Deadpool’s earned – whatever he wants. He’s got an almost-name, and no collar, and he’s just – wrapped up in warm blankets with the promise of warm snacks coming, and a whole list of Weapon X operatives to eliminate. He’s _free_. The rush of it strikes him. He’s _free_ , and it’s all Deadpool’s doing. It occurs to him that Deadpool might not let him stick around long enough to repay him if he sees his face, sees what a monster _Spidey_ really is. Sure, he’s bound to have seen his face, seen his – everything, since he’s not exactly clothed right now. But Deadpool couldn’t have seen his _eyes_. The voice of everybody who’s ever seen them plays on a loop in his head, rouses him enough to finally leave the comfort of the warm bed and go in search of something to cover up with. He’s not the only one around here who wears a mask, surely there’s bound to be an extra lying around here somewhere…

_Damn, shut your eyes, it’s so creepy –_

_Face the wall, dipshit, nobody wants to see that._

_They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. You must not have one, huh?_

_I'd feel sorry for you, except you’re just a monster who deserves it –_

They’d keep the googles on whenever they could, or else throw a hand towel or a loose scrap of clothing over his face when they used him. He’s been punished more than once for creeping out interns with his staring, never mind the fact that he’d been staring at walls or tables or floors, not at them, _never_ at them.

His legs feel a little weak. He stands gingerly at first, grabs one of the blankets and throws it over his shoulders as he goes in search of a mask. Or sunglasses, or a blindfold, if nothing else a tie or a scarf, anything he can wrap around his head. Those last options might render him sightless, but it’s always better to be blind than to be – hated. Mocked. Discarded. He’s not sure where he’d go if Deadpool kicked him out. There’s nowhere _to_ go, besides maybe jumping off a skyscraper or a bridge or walking into traffic. Even then, he’s half-convinced his instincts would kick in and he’d end up saving himself at the last second. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t _want_ to die. Having it as an option now, though, feels – freeing. Another thing to add to his likes list.

A muffled noise has him freezing, one hand buried deep in one of the dresser drawers.

He shuffles over to the bedroom door, hand on the doorknob. Swallowing, heart racing, he turns the knob, opens the door just a sliver, just enough to peek through. He sees a messy living room and kitchen, sees the front door on the other side, straight ahead. As he’s looking at it, the front doorknob jiggles, a muffled voice coming through jolly and triumphant as he seems to find a key and then the door’s thrown open so hard it bounces off the wall. Spidey flinches back and almost shuts the door, catching it before it can completely close, careful not to make any movements as Deadpool tromps through to the kitchen and heaves two armfuls of grocery bags down on the counter, talking to himself all the while.

“– he will not, White, stop worrying! Everybody likes chicken noodle, it’s a _staple_ , you’re being such a mother hen right now, have you always been this pesky? Because Christ, it’s annoying as fuck. Wait, is this how _I_ sound to people? Why didn’t you _tell me –_ ” He stops, his head tilted. Grunts as he shakes his head and yanks open a cabinet, pulling cans out of the bag and tossing them into the cupboard. He’s wearing his suit, weapons and all, though it’s hard not to notice all the bullet holes and charred bits, harder still not to _smell_ the charred bits. He’s missing one of his katanas, too, which seems uncharacteristic. It makes Spidey wonder how, exactly, Deadpool got him out of that warehouse. Deadpool growls in apparent frustration and rips one of the plastic bags, wrestling a giant colorful cereal box out of it. Then he huffs and says, “Oh screw you, I’m not about to give somebody who’s been tortured by Weapon X for who even knows how long _canned soup_ as his first meal of freedom. He gets the real deal, amigos… okay, _rude_. See if I let you have any.”

He takes out a pot and fills it with water at the sink, then starts cutting up vegetables with all the assured, efficient chopping of a master chef, humming a wordless tune, seemingly content again as though the bout of rage had never even happened. He’s – he’s cooking. Spidey hardly dares to breathe as he shuts the bedroom door as quietly and slowly as possible. Then he hurries back to the task at hand, glad that stealth is a specialty as he rummages through the drawers for something quick to blind himself with.

He’s running out of time.


	7. Lay Low, Bro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments. <3
> 
> This week put me through the wringer. So appreciative of this outlet and of every single human on the other side of these screens, reading my shit. You guys and gals are beautiful, fantastic people. Give your enemies hell and dance over their corpses, my friends.
> 
> As an aside, I bought a Deadpool ugly Christmas sweater and I swear there's literally nothing ugly about it, I'm wearing this fucking thing year round. :D

7\. Lay Low, Bro

-

-

-

Peeling the suit off himself is a _bitch_.

Deadpool has a high pain tolerance. To be fair, anyone who frequently gets shot through with bullets or losses limbs to stray bombs has to be able to stomach some pain, and he can sure as shit stomach some gnarly pain. But despite popular opinion, Wade still does _feel_ it. He’s not _Francis_. Big injuries never hurt as much as the small ones, though, when all his nerve endings are exposed to the air because they’re so surface level. Healing hurts worse than the original injury, because as his insides knit back together, those surface nerves get all sorts of screwed sideways, and his skin rippling isn’t just for aesthetics, folks. It’s a bloody war that rages just under the surface, his mutated cells battling the cancer or the injuries or both for dominance. Some battles are won quickly. Others? Not. So. Much.

Today’s a bad skin day.

[[Excuse me, but every day is a bad skin day.]]

[Today’s a _worse_ skin day.]

[[You’re telling me, look at all that pus –]]

[You’ve got a little _ooze,_ brah.]

He’s got a spare Deadpool suit stored away in this condominium, but it’s tucked inside the closet in the room Spidey’s commandeered, so that’s plum out. It’s fortunate for them both that Spidey seems to be hiding in the bedroom, because if he saw Wade right now, he’d flee in horror. White hit the nail on the head when he said it was a worse skin day, and boy is there sure _ooze_. He left his suit on too long, and the fabric has adhered to the bullet holes, fusing into his skin where it’s been trying to heal over. He’s pretty sure that sickly stench of rotting flesh and stale earwax odor is _him_. It churns his own stomach, let alone Spidey’s. It’s a good thing that homemade soup has to simmer for a while to fully blend the flavors, because it takes a solid thirty minutes to scrape out bits of fabric from all his oozing, rotting wounds. They won’t heal right with debris sticking to them, though at least his healing factor’s good at pushing out bullets. It’d have taken longer to fish ‘em all out himself.

Breathing hard through the pain, Wade grits his teeth and digs a fingernail underneath a stubborn chunk of fabric that’s stuck inside an angry red abscess on his stomach, the healing factor clearly on the losing side of this battle right now, all yellow, rancid pus and – “Shit, shit, ow, motherFUCKER –”

“D’you need help?”

Wade flails. The shock of hearing another voice outside his own head has him ripping the buried fabric out of his side in one quick yank, sending flecks of pus and blood flinging into the air and onto the couch he was sitting on, spattering across his legs. He can’t be sure through the resulting manly shriek and white hot fiery pain, but he thinks he might have blacked out for a few seconds, because the next thing he knows, there’s a glob of webbing stuck to his bleeding side. Wade had curled into himself, arms wrapped around his own torso, but then Spidey’s bare hand is moving his arms out of the way, his touch firm as he nudges Wade over. Wade falls into the couch with a whimper, sweaty and hot through what’s left of the suit. He obeys the spiderling and lays down, head on the arm of the couch. But _fuck_ does it sting to lay flat instead of curl up, all stabbing pain that’s got every muscle tensed up and shaking. Spidey presses a firm hand against Wade’s webbed-up injury and holds pressure there, kneeling beside the couch. The weight of his palm pressing against the wound instantly relieves some of the black spots dancing in his vision. He finally notices what Spidey’s wearing.

A Deadpool mask.

[SQUEEE!]

[[Even I will admit he’s freaking adorable in our mask. I mean, yeah.]]

Well, and a loose sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, probably some pants to match. The long black legs at his back are tucked into the sweatshirt, all hunchback of Notre Dame style. Wade hopes he’d managed to find a clean pair of his clothes to wear, hopes he didn’t have to pull on something from the hamper. Or the floor. What can he say, he hasn’t been here in a while, okay, and literally none of his safe houses are clean and orderly, it’s just not gonna – you know what, he shouldn’t have to justify his living conditions, he got banned from the last laundromat and there’s a bad taste in his mouth from the experience, color him traumatized –

“Looks like you got shot a lot,” Spidey murmurs, masked face pointed at the wound.

“You should see the other guys,” Wade says, just as soft.

Spidey’s head tilts, white panda eyes flicking to Wade’s face. The fabric is a little loose on him, just loose enough so that Wade can’t see his lips, can’t tell if he’s smiling or frowning or about to throw up under there. But his voice doesn’t sound distressed when he says, “Is there anything left of them to see?”

Wade blinks. “Not really, now that I think about it.”

“Good.” Spidey’s voice is definitive. Then a quieter, earnest: “Thank you.”

[awwww]

[[when’s the last time we got thanked??]]

[Definitely before he turned into scarface’s deformed lovechild.]

[[I’m not crying, _you’re_ crying.]]

Wade swallows, breath hitched, hands clenching into fists at his sides so he won’t be tempted to do anything stupid like reach out. His side feels warm where Spidey’s pressing his hands into it. Now that imminent danger and that damn collar is gone, Wade can feel the anxious anticipation of what’s next squirming around inside him. Spidey can leave at any moment, and why wouldn’t he? Deadpool’s got nothing that could possibly convince him to stay, not that he wants to try and convince him of anything. He should probably get far away from Deadpool, actually, just for his own well-being. “You’re totally welcome. Like, anytime. Seriously, I live for a good Weapon X extermination. I had a good time despite the emotional turmoil and the rage and the sheer terror of finding you all frozen and near dead. You almost gave me a heart attack! So glad you’re alive, bee tee dubs. When I saw you standing all spry by the door earlier I swear I about wet myself in excitement –”

“You saw me?”

Wade stops babbling, immediately noticing the sudden stillness in Spidey’s hunched posture.

[He doesn’t want you to see him.]

[[Why though? He’s totally hot. And has he seen _you_? Not exactly winning any beauty contests around here. Although Spidey might win some, he is _fine_. Those rock hard abs, that tousled head of the most adorable –]]

[I _will scream_ –]

“Um, just through the crack in the door?” Wade tries. “I didn’t really get a good look at you or anything, I just saw that you were there. I’d have said hello, but you didn’t seem like you wanted that just then, and I wanted to make your soup fir – oh my God, the soup, the soup!”

It turns out the soup is fine, having simmered on low to the perfect blend of herbs and veggie flavoring. He washes his hands at the sink before he spoons it into two bowls, his side feeling much better with Spidey’s webbing on it. It probably won’t feel good getting pulled off, but maybe it’ll dissolve or something. Either way, without suit particles fused to his wounds, it’s healing fast, his body burning through the infections at a breakneck pace. Spidey is on the couch sitting on the edge of the cushion, stiff and still, watching him. He looks uncomfortable and out of place, which sucks, so Wade hands him his bowl of hot soup, gets Netflix booted up, shows him how to operate the remote, and skedaddles off to the bathroom to shower and change into a less holey outfit. He couldn’t have expected Spidey to be able to eat next to Wade smelling and looking like roadkill. Maybe if he’s less disgusting, well, maybe –

He feels worlds better when he returns to the living room.

Spidey’s looking more relaxed, too, watching an older episode of Supernatural, Sam and Dean still baby-faced youngsters with floppy hair and the cocky swagger of someone who’s not been to hell and back yet. The soup bowl’s licked clean on the coffee table and he’s leaning into the cushions more, legs crossed with an elbow on the arm of the couch. When Wade plops down beside him and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, Spidey glances at him and says, “There’re way more seasons of this show than I remember. It used to scare me, but now…” he shrugs, mask eyes flicking back to the screen, where the impala is driving itself over a bridge, chasing the brothers and revving angrily. “For some reason the woman in white story’s more sad than scary? I think _I’m_ scarier than her true form, these days.”

“As someone who’s been pounced on by the impressive might of your spidey powers, I’d have to agree.”

He means it to be admiring, but Spidey winces, shoulders drawing up. “I’m sorry about –”

“Oh no, no, no.” Wade’s eyes widen. He nudges a shoulder against Spidey’s, heart racing, and says a quick, definitive, “No sorries, baby boy, I get it. You were just following orders, and besides, those had to be the most peaceful deaths I’ve ever had. If I ever get rid of this pesky healing factor, I know who to track down for a nice happy assisted suicide. 10/10, would be killed by you again. I think it’s totally badass how scary you are, honestly. Like, I’m basically immortal and even _I_ wouldn’t wanna go toe to toe with you in a dark alley. Which is a good thing! You’re awesome, is what I’m trying to say.”

[And _failing_ to say.]

[[You’re being so lame right now, this is _painful_.]]

It _feels_ painful. Wade hisses at the boxes to shut up, then does an abrupt about face and points to the screen. “So, Supernatural. You used to be a fan? Which season did you get to before, yanno.” He makes an X out of his fingers and wags his eyebrows, all spazzy and nervous, his stomach in knots. He’s a little desperate for this to go well, is all. But social interaction doesn’t usually go well anymore, and it feels like there’s a wall between them created by Spidey’s apparent tension in his presence. When Spidey says he doesn’t remember the season, just that they still hadn’t tracked down the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Wade oohs and says, “Oh boy, you haven’t met Castiel yet! Shush, that’s hardly a spoiler, he doesn’t even know that Cas is an angel – shit, well that one’s on you, White, this is why you can’t have nice things – popcorn! We’re gonna need a snack for this impending binge session! I can’t wait to see your face when you meet - no, wait, I can’t tell you, but it’s gonna blow your mind like eleven seasons from now. Bit of a long build up, but I promise it’s gonna be worth the wait. This show loves its fan service, you have no idea the lengths they’ll go. Are you still cold, Spidey? Wanna bring some blankets out here? I can make those s’mores now. Or do you – I mean, I could go if you’d rather watch this on your onesies, no hard feelings or nothing –”

Spidey looks vaguely statuesque, frozen in place. His mask eyes are wide.

It’s a little weird being on the receiving end of that.

“No, don’t leave, please –” And now Spidey sounds _desperate_ , if not downright scared.

Wade takes a deep breath to calm himself down. His hands feel twitchy.

“I won’t leave,” he says, quietly. “I’m here as long as you want me here.”

Spidey scrubs a hand down his masked face. Then he sighs, that same hand stopping at his neck, fingertips moving under the mask to rub the skin there. It’s easy to imagine what he’s thinking about. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his head thrown back onto the couch cushions. “I think I’m – my mind’s a mess, Deadpool. This all feels…”

Spidey trails off, shrugging again.

This whole thing feels like a mess. It’s not just Spidey. The truth is, it’s been a shitty couple days for Wade, too. Realizing that Weapon X is still active, thinking about all the sad fucks they’ve tortured and experimented on and killed because he was an idiot and didn’t realize they were still even around, returning to their dismal little torture chambers and being back there… and his skin isn’t cooperating today, keeps opening new sores that leak pus on the inside of the cozy sweats he’d donned after the shower. His mask feels sticky with tears and sweat and blood, stifling, and Spidey looks like he’s about two seconds away from jumping out the window to get away from him, or else maybe he’s just jumpy in general right now, but it’s making Wade jittery, too. He’s a little ill-equipped for this. His own shit baggage and insecurities and insanity don’t make him a prime candidate to help _anybody_. He’s not good for anyone, least of all for a recently tortured ex-slave.

But he _wants_ to be.

So, he straightens himself up. Takes a few deep breaths. Wade thinks about what he’d need to hear if he were in Spidey’s shoes. Reaching past Spidey for the remote on the table beside the couch, he pauses the show, then very slowly and carefully returns to his own space, his hands flexing and unflexing in his lap. Spidey’s watching him. Wade breathes in through his nose and slaps his hands on his lap, then says, “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

“I’m listening.”

Wade grins, the outline of his lips visible through the fabric. The sight seems to relax Spidey’s tense shoulders. “I think we both very obviously need to unwind.” Spidey snorts, which, _cute_. “So,” Wade declares, “We’re gonna take a few minutes to set all the records straight between us, get everything out there, and then I’m gonna get you some more hot soup, a few blankets, maybe a quick pillow fort, and we’re gonna sit in this completely safe, completely untraceable condo and binge watch the shit out of some Supernatural and forget about everything else for a little while. Cool?”

Spidey leans forward, wide-eyed. He swallows. “Yeah, sure.”

Wade’s bitten enough bullets in his day. He can bite one more. “Okay, cool. I’ll go first! So, not that you’re not the most adorable Deadpool in all the land, and you’re totally welcome to keep the mask on or just keep it forever in general, but in the interest of you being comfortable here, you know you don’t have to wear it, right? I mean, I’ve kinda already seen your face? Not that I ever would have without your permission,” he hurries to add, seeing the negative affect his words are having. Shit, he didn’t wanna make him _more_ anxious, that was the exact opposite of his goal, here. “But you weren’t wearing a mask in the ice. So. Also, you’re freaking beautiful, and if anybody’s ever told you otherwise, they’re either already dead or they’re gonna die real soon, so I wouldn’t take anything those blowholes had to say to heart –”

“It’s not – you said I can keep the mask on, so I – can I just –”

[Spidey looks freaked the fuck out, lay off him, would you?]

[[Color me surprised that your attempted heart to heart isn’t going well.]]

Wade holds up his hands. “Yeah, yeah, sure, no problem.” Then he fidgets into the ensuing silence because it feels like nothing was solved, and he’d been trying to solve something, so he adds again, “Just, you don’t have to wear it. You’re safe here. Cross my heart and hope to –”

“ _You’re_ wearing a mask.”

Wade pauses. “Um, yeah,” he says, slowly. “Because _I_ look like minced meat.”

Spidey reaches down to fiddle with the hem of the giant sweatshirt. Tug, tug, tug. “I – you haven’t seen my – you won’t want me here if you see…” He’s starting to breathe weird, labored breaths, shaking his head, words stilted and trailing into panic. Wade can’t stand it anymore, the gulf between them this fragile landmine where they’re just – feeding off each other’s issues. He yanks off one glove with his teeth. Reaches over and grabs Spidey’s hand, stopping him from tugging at his shirt. Slow and steady, he laces their fingers together and squeezes, hears Spidey suck in a breath and seem to hold it, his hand cold against Wade’s scars. At least there aren’t open sores on his hands right now, but – shit, not the focus, here. It feels a lot like freefalling to offer skin on skin contact to another person, to be the one to initiate for a change. Wade hasn’t tried anything like this since Vanessa, and everybody knows how _that_ turned out. But If Spidey hated the feel of his textured skin, he’d have pulled away, could pull away at any time, really – but no, Spidey’s grip tightens around his, holding back, squeezing back.

Wade swallows into the silence, eyes on their joined hands. “You – shit, Spidey, you don’t gotta worry about me not wanting you here. I’m – really _glad_ you’re here, actually. Nothing you show me is gonna change that. Hell, your spider legs are fucking amazeballs, you could even stretch those bad boys out and I literally would admire how cool they are and try not to make too many inappropriate jokes about how you’ve got legs for days. And, um, on that same line of thinking – I don’t know if you’re even thinking about this or if it’s even a slight question in your head, but it’s important to me that you know that – well, I know you kissed me, before, and I know how – intimate our little encounters felt on _my_ end, but that doesn’t ever have to happen again.” Here he locks eyes with Spidey, and the uncertainty falls entirely away from his voice. He adds an insistent, “I have zero expectations for anything like that to happen again. You don’t have to do anything you don’t explicitly want to do ever again, _with anyone_. I genuinely would much rather cut my own dick clean off than have you think for even a second that I’m – anticipating or expecting sexy times, or kissing, or hell, any contact at all.”

He can’t tell what Spidey’s thinking, except his hand clutches Wade’s like a lifeline.

“I didn’t have to kiss you,” Spidey says it in a whisper. “That was just… for me.”

“Oh,” Wade says, rather lamely.

But Spidey’s not done. “I didn’t have to kill you that way, either. I don’t, usually. I don’t like to get that close to my targets. And the – my saliva numbs the area, makes the bite near painless. I spent the past year or so hearing about you. My handlers liked to rant about you, about how you killed Ajax and so many others, how you escaped with one of the most profitable mutations they’d ever created. They were trying to replicate your mutation, desperate for it, cutting people apart to see if they’d regenerate. I was – I just, you’d been in the program. You’d had a lot of the same experiences I did, but you _fought_ it. You beat them, and I – I knew I had to kill you, the collar wouldn’t let me _not_ kill you. It didn’t say you had to die in pain, though. I wanted to give you – something better than more pain.” He sighs, hesitant and unsure. “I never wanted to – force you into anything, or…”

“You didn’t force me,” Wade says quickly, interrupting, wide-eyed. His heart’s racing and it _aches_.

Spidey squeezes his hand. “You didn’t force me, either. I wanted to do all those things.”

“That’s – that’s good, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

[[ _Oh my God_ , Spidey’s as big a dope as you are.]]

Wade doesn’t even care about the boxes right now. Let them spout their frankly rude remarks, because he’s holding hands with an adorable cream puff who’s holding his hand back, and it’s – this is going well, isn’t it? Better than he expected this to go, so far. One of Spidey’s thumbs starts rubbing over his scars, feeling the texture, a slow back and forth across the back of his hand that’s raising goosebumps along his arms and down his spine. Wade tries not to bring any attention to it. He says, instead, “So, I guess just a few more things before we get on board the relaxation station. I managed to get the file they’ve been keeping on you on a thumb drive. I haven’t looked at it, but – maybe you might want to?”

Spidey’s thumb stops moving. He shuffles a bit until he can lean his head against Wade’s shoulder with a soft thump. Wade freezes in place, hardly daring to breathe, as Spidey presses against his side. He mumbles, “Thanks, I – maybe later. ‘m tired.”

“It’ll keep.”

“Don’t look at it though, please? Until I can –”

“Sure, of course.”

“Thanks,” Spidey says again.

After that, things are – better. Spidey’s less jumpy, and surprisingly more – cuddly? than Wade pictured him being, but it’s – good. It’s really good. Wade gets them both some soup this time, and they both pull their masks up to their noses to eat. Spidey doesn’t even flinch at seeing the lower half of his face, at seeing him on a bad skin day. It’s like he just – sees through the scars? Sees through the pus and the hanging scabs and the way the pockmarks and ridges ripple. How can anyone see through _that_? He tries angling away while he eats, but Spidey scoots closer to him so their hips are touching, legs pressed against each other’s. They watch a few episodes of Supernatural cuddled close on the couch, bellies full of warm soup. Wade meant to get them a blanket or two, but Spidey doesn’t wanna let him up, tightening his grip when he tries to leave the couch. And how’s he supposed to argue that, anyway? So, they cuddle. Wade is – cuddling someone. At some point the thought of it overwhelms him, and when the brothers are sitting on the side of the road against the impala, talking about their feelings, Wade starts to cry. Silent, hidden by the mask, but he’s just – it’s been a while, okay? Having someone close again, they don’t even really know each other yet, but they don’t have to know each other to leech comfort from the mutual contact. Wade gets the impression that Spidey’s a little touch-starved, and Wade’s sure as shit more than willing to provide some touch.

[You complete assho-]

 _Innocent_ touch, he amends, rolling his eyes.

Spidey only makes it ten minutes into episode three before his breaths even out and his head feels heavy against Wade’s shoulder, listing a bit to the side in sleep. Wade carries him back to bed, tucks the blankets around him. When he’s tiptoeing out of the room, however, Spidey shuffles over and flops a hand out of the blankets, says a soft, sleepy, “Stay? Aren’t you tired, too? You can – please?”

Wade waffles in the doorway, unsure, _wanting_. “Um – you sure about that, baby boy? I can take the couch, it’s no biggie.”

Spidey’s arm flops down onto the blankets again. “C’mere, Pool. ‘f you want.”

And Wade… Wade does want.

He’s hot in the sweats, but he climbs into the bed, lays out on top of the blankets, head on a pillow. Spidey shuffles closer and flops his arm across Wade’s chest, hand on Wade’s arm. He mumbles into Wade’s shoulder, “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Wade swallows. His eyes burn. He turns and throws his own arm over the blankets on Spidey, scoots closer.

“G’night, Pool.”

“Yeah,” Wade says again. He releases a breath. “Good night, Spidey. Sweet dreams.”

-

-

-

The news reporter is holding a microphone in a white-knuckled grip as she outlines the events caught on camera, a masked man in red and black emerging from the smoking husk of a giant crater in Long Island. The footage is shaky, someone’s thumb in the corner of the screen. The person behind the camera zooms in on the man, whose suit is charred and smoking, weapons hanging off his belt, his arm flopping off to the side like a limp rag, dangling from a squished, caved-in shoulder. He limps out of the rubble like something straight out of a zombie horror flick, his leg trailing behind him as he shuffles down an alleyway and eventually out of the camera’s view. The camera follows him until he’s out of sight then spins in a dizzying circle until it finds the giant crater again, zooming out to capture the whole thing.

Director Fury reaches for the remote, flicks the screen off. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Something’s gonna need to be done about him.”

Fury sighs again. “Deadpool’s a headache I didn’t want.”

“Well he’s a headache you’ve _got_. He blew up a whole city block! The crater’s bigger than the one left by the Twin Towers. Three civilians were pulled from the wreckage, but there’s about another dozen people still missing. I’m sure more bodies are coming. Did you see how that one civilian had her eyes _ripped out_? Why haven’t you already handled this? No disrespect, but you’d think a super spy organization might have been on top of this by now. Didn’t he cause a lot of property damage and kill a bunch of people in New York last year, too?”

“The X-men tried to handle that one.”

“Well the X-men suck. Again, no disrespect –”

“Really?” Please excuse his skepticism. “None at all?”

“Okay, _some_ disrespect. Look, either you get your band of merry men to handle this, or I will. And I’d really like to not have to handle this. Do you realize how many things I already have on my plate? It’s a full plate, Fury. Speaking of, this conference is coming out of your consultation hours.”

“ _You_ called _me_.”

“Don’t remind me. I don’t know what I was thinking – oh wait, yes I do. I was thinking that this is something you should be handling. Don’t they have those mutant dampening collars you could stick on him? It’ll keep him dead as long as it’s on. Why haven’t you tried that yet? Do I have to do everything around here?”

Fury sits up in his chair, leans forward with his elbows on the table. “Don’t do anything rash –”

“Who, me?”

Fury grits his teeth. “Yes, _you_. I haven’t engaged Deadpool for a reason.”

“Well your reason just blew up along with Long Island. _Handle him_.”

The call cuts out abruptly, the dial tone loud in the room. Fury hangs up on his end and rubs at his temples.

What a _mess_.

-

-

-

Wade wakes up the next morning tangled in blankets and limbs, Spidey wrapped around him like a koala, masked face burrowed under Wade’s shoulder. One of Spidey’s knees is pressed rather comfortably atop Wade’s groin, and Wade Jr.’s taken full notice of the contact, gone rogue without Wade awake to stop him. You’d think Wade would wake up hot, with another body pressed so firmly against him, but Spidey seems to be leeching off Wade’s body heat instead of adding to it, and it feels – soft and sweet and like he could lay in that warm spot forever. Well, _he_ could. Wade Jr. needs a little attention, though. He tries to leave slowly, not jostle the bed too much, holding his breath each time it seems like Spidey might wake. But it was an impossible task, because Spidey does wake, rousing just enough to release him, roll over, and murmur a sleep-muffled, “Gonna sleep more. ‘s okay?”

“Course, Spidey. You don’t have to ask me that.”

A soft sigh is his only response. Spidey seems to sleep hard, so Wade takes a minute to pile up all the dirty laundry around the room before he drags it all into the living room and leaves the spider to his slumber. He can’t help but compare this with how it’d been with Ness. Before the scars, she’d always grumble and come looking for him if he woke up first, hated being left by herself to sleep. He used to think that was endearing, that she didn’t want to be without him in sleep. But now – is it weird that this feels almost more intimate than that? That Spidey letting him leave, so simple and unconcerned, makes him feel almost – valued?

[Definitely weird.]

[[I feel like it should be the other way around. Spidey doesn’t give a crap if we’re in the bed or out of it. Ness did. _She_ valued you, at least before you were gross.]]

Wade heads for a shower. It feels skeevy to rub one out right now, one door away from Spidey, so he turns the knob to cold and steps into the spray. He’s determined not to do anything skeevy in relation to Spidey. He’s relying on Wade for way too many things right now, has a seriously fucked up history with sex, was literally enslaved up until yesterday… nope, it’s all too skeevy. He wants to do this right. A friendship where there’s cuddling and kindness and – _softness_ is honestly more than he could have cooked up in his wildest dreams already. Weasel’s a solid friend, sure, but even Weas doesn’t touch Wade with a ten-foot pole. And Blind Al is fucking _blind_. She’d totally barf if she could see who she’s been hanging with. Simple human contact with someone whose stomach doesn’t seem to rebel at the sight of him, someone who could absolutely commiserate with him about Weapon X to boot? It’s fucking nirvana, okay. Wade’s not about to fuck that up by trying for anything else. If there’s never anything more than what they’ve got right now, he’d still feel hashtag blessed.

[Good Deadpool.]

“I’m not a dog, asshole.”

[[ruff ruff]]

The shower sucked, but at least this one’s big enough to use without kneeling, and a cold shower isn’t even the suckiest thing he’ll be doing today. Wade dresses in the same sweats he wore last night, fits a trusty baseball cap over his bald head, pulls the hood up over that, rummages through the cabinet under the sink for some sunglasses that’ll cover even more of his face, and finally he feels marginally prepared to face the public. It’s not even six in the morning yet, sunlight only now beginning to peek out over the cityscape. It’s a good time to use the laundromat. Of course, while he’s sitting in one of the dingy little faded gray chairs by the front waiting on the rinse cycle, the crappy little TV directly across from him is showing the aerial view of the exploded Weapon X warehouse. Wade slouches into the seat and pulls his cap down over his head, arms crossed across his chest. Fucking news.

There’s a body count at the bottom of the screen. Confirmed dead: 14

Wade scowls, scoffing and waving an outraged hand at the screen. “That’s not even –”

[Shhh, that dude behind the counter keeps looking at us!]

[[Yeah, low profile, bro.]]

Has Wade ever mentioned how much he _hates it_ when the boxes talk sense??

He manages to contain himself through the drying cycles and folding what seems like an entire department store’s inventory worth of clothing. Stuffs it all into two laundry bags, which he carries over his shoulders like Santa Claus all the way back home. He peeks in on Spidey, who has yet to emerge from the cocoon of blankets, and by the time he eats through two bags of Cheetos and chugs an entire bottle of whiskey, it’s only ten o’clock.

Oh, _screw it_.

He grabs the burner phone he’d nabbed yesterday, punches in that all-too familiar number, fingers drumming across the arm of the couch and one leg bouncing. It rings three times, four, then –

“What the hell do you want?”

Ah, the sweet, scratchy sound of an enraged weasel.

His fingers tap a pattern into the couch cushion. Tap tap, tap, tap tap, tap. “Do you realize this is the third state I’m now wanted in? I feel so – well, wanted! But also, is your guy done yet? How hard can moving a massive amount of money be –”

Weasel’s groan is low and drawn-out. “It’s – ten in the fucking morning. What part of _night shift_ don’t you understand?”

“Waiting around your schedule is _boring_.”

“Jesus Christ, why am I even – no, Wade, it’s not ready yet. Then again, maybe it is, but I’ve been _fucking sleeping,_ so I haven’t exactly gotten any of my messages yet. And since when do you care if you’re a wanted criminal or not? I figured you’d like being _at large_.”

“Yeah, well –” Wade fidgets. “Spidey’s been under lock and key for _years_. He’s supposed to be _free_ now, but we can’t even leave the fucking house because if I’m recognized, then all hell’s gonna break loose. A life on the run doesn’t exactly beat a life of enslavement, does it? I just – need this shit to go away. And that body count isn’t even _mine_. They’re finding all the bits and pieces of Weapon X victims and assuming I killed them! If I’m gonna be wanted for mass murder, it should be for all the mass murders I’ve _actually_ caused. I feel so attacked right now.”

“Didn’t you murder the fuck outa dozens of Weapon X employees somewhere in all that rubble?”

“… minor details.”

“Right.” Weasel sighs. “Look, if your creepy crawly’s been under lock and key for literal years, I can’t imagine a few more weeks are gonna do the guy in. Just lay low for a while. Introduce him to some video games. Shows he’s missed. Some of those gross rom coms you keep monologuing to me. A fucking game of Jenga for all I care. And for fuck’s sake, _stop calling me_. Literally all the supers on high know you frequent my bar. It’s only a matter of time before suits start poking around here, and with how big this thing’s blown up? It wouldn’t surprise me if they manage to get a search warrant to pull my call history. There’s literally nothing you can do right now to fix this any quicker than we’re fixing it. _Lay low_. I’ll be in touch when we’ve got something set up.”

Weasel hangs up on him, the asshole.

Wade stares down at the phone, scowling.

“What’s Jenga?”

Of course, Spidey heard. Why the fuck not. It’s a testament to how thoroughly unsurprised he is by it that Wade doesn’t even flinch at the sudden voice. He just glances over his shoulder and watches Spidey linger at the doorway with his masked head tilted, white panda eyes narrowed little slits. Still weird to be on the receiving end of –

The mask.

THE MOTHERFUCKING MASK.

He’d taken off the hat and glasses the moment he saw Spidey still sleeping. They stare at each other for a heart-stopping moment, Wade wide-eyed with the realization and feeling suddenly flush-hot. The world seems to tunnel inward. Then Spidey breaks the spell by taking one step toward the couch. Wade full-body flinches then, scrambling for the hood of the sweatshirt to pull it back up and over his face, curling his body low, heart in his throat. His voice comes out two pitches too high when he croaks out a panicked, stricken, “Sorry, shit, sorry, I wasn’t – didn’t – I wasn’t thinking. I’ll just – if you could close your eyes for a minute, I’ll run around you and get the mask. It’s in the bathroom.” When Spidey doesn’t respond verbally, and Wade can’t exactly see him since he’s got the hood pulled down over his entire face, stretching the cotton blend to do so, he says another defeated, tired, “Sorry you had to see – you know. Sorry.”

Still no response.

Desperate, Wade says, “Are you closing your eyes?”

Spidey’s voice, when it comes, sounds from right next to him. Wade flinches again as something soft plops into his lap, his eyes still blinded by the darkness of his hoodie. When Wade makes no move to discover what’s on his lap, Spidey says a soft, serious, “I got your mask. It’s – I’ll close my eyes while you put it on. Okay?”

“Promise?” He sounds crazy, like a complete baby, but – but _shit_.

Spidey’s voice is still soft, still _close_. Too close. “I promise.”

Even White sounds sad. [D’you think he threw up while he was in the bathroom getting our mask?]

[[ _Hell yes he did_.]] Yellow’s furious. [[We’re fucking _grotesque_. Swamp monster meets uglier shittier swamp monster. It’s still a bad skin day, dipshit! How could you forget to put the fucking mask back on? How could you –]]

Wade’s hand is trembling when he feels blindly for the mask, slips it on fast before he lets the hood drop. He tries to play off the panic, because it’s too revealing, too vulnerable, if he doesn’t pull it back fast it’ll pull him completely under, and Spidey shouldn’t have to see one of his meltdowns, not today, not this soon – “Hoo boy, thanks for the save there. And wow, you’re all spidery again! Those webs are the shit, have I mentioned how badass they are? Because just – wow. Are you hungry? I can cook you something! For some reason, I always seem to make you pancakes in these shindigs. D’you like –?”

“Deadpool.”

Wade stops. Swallows then sucks in a breath. Spidey’s hanging upside down from the ceiling on a line of webbing, his masked face only a foot away from Wade’s. It’d be the perfect opportunity to joke about one of those famous upside down kisses, except Wade feels too disgusting even to kid about something like that right now. Just, no. In the sudden silence, Spidey crawls up the line and then across the ceiling, down the wall, until he flips onto the couch and crouches beside him. Wade stays very still.

“I should have said this last night, when we were – when you told me I didn’t have to wear a mask. You don’t either. I guess I assumed you knew that, but yeah. I actually kind of – I liked seeing your face?”

“You…” Wade almost can’t repeat it through the boxes screaming in his head. “You… liked seeing…?”

That doesn’t make any sense.

He’s hallucinating, he’s dreaming, this isn’t real –

Spidey nods, all earnest. “It’s comforting. To see your facial expressions. To see the person who saved me. Your scars are just – I mean, they look painful. But painful to _you_ , not me. It sucks if they hurt you as much as they look like they hurt. I like seeing you, though. It’s probably stupid, but you make me feel – less alone?”

Wade can’t even respond for a hot minute. He’s glad for the mask, though, because his eyes are stinging and he has to swallow through another lump in his throat. Spidey reaches out a cautious, slow hand, then, letting it hover until he seems satisfied that Wade’s not trying to get away. Very slowly, he inches toward and then grasps Wade’s hand, interlocking their fingers and squeezing through Wade’s glove. They sit like that for an embarrassingly long while, just holding hands in silent solidarity. Finally, when it feels like he won’t fall apart at the first movement, at the first spoken word, Wade slides his hand out from under Spidey’s only long enough to remove his glove, then hurries to clutch those long fingers and cool palm back to him again, as though Spidey might change his mind now that some of Wade’s skin is showing. But Spidey doesn’t change his mind. He holds on tighter, his grip firm and steady, their fingers slotting together a little like two jagged puzzle pieces that fit just right. Wade sniffles. He stares at their joined hands and says a whispered, agreeing, “Less alone. ‘s not stupid.”

Neither of them remove their masks around each other that day. Not even that week.

But under the masks, something tentative and fragile has cracked open.

Something a little like – _trust_.


	8. Watch the Damn News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet it already goes without saying, but I gotta say it anyway - I'm not following the MCU timeline. I'm piecing things together for my own amusement. In this world, Iron Man 3 just recently happened, and Captain America: Winter Soldier is happening in this chapter somewhere off screen while DP and Spidey chill out and sip margaritas. You know how it goes.
> 
> Thanks for all those lovely comments. My soul craves them. 
> 
> Also, I've fleshed the rest of this thing out and we're nearing the end. Should just be two more chapters.

8\. Watch the Damn News

-

-

-

Of all the video games in the world, Spidey seems to enjoy Animal Crossing the most.

Granted, Wade doesn’t own all the video games in the world. At least, not on all the original systems. But he’s got a Steam account and the latest consoles, and they’ve got nothing but time on their hands now, so. All the shoot ‘em ups stress Spidey out, the sound of heavy gunfire and bombs dropping, hell, even the less realistic zombie moans in the distance and the tension of the heart-stopping music every time a new level loads has him gripping the controller hard and sitting on the edge of the couch, every muscle in his body all coiled up and ready to spring. The first time he advanced to a high enough level for the zombies to start running, Spidey hurled the controller clear across the room and literally leapt onto the ceiling, sticking up there for a solid five minutes before Wade was able to coax him down with the promise of a less stressful game and a cuddle sesh.

So, yes. Animal Crossing. Way less traumatic.

Wade doesn’t mind the game. It’s cute and relaxing and there’s definite satisfaction being had by filling up their island’s museum with new and exciting fish finds. What he does mind, however, is being poofed every which way on two-player mode. It’s gotta be one of the worst two-player games in the known universe. The second player follows the leader, has zero control over which direction they walk, and everything they forage for ends up in a box halfway across town. Spidey offers to switch places so that Wade’s the leader when Wade gets too frustrated, but it takes too long to switch them out, and it’s super inconvenient having to go back and forth to that fucking box to get his shit.

Spidey spies a dragonfly they haven’t seen before zooming away to the left and immediately charges after it. Which is great, they totally need that dragonfly, except that Wade had been one nibble away from catching that fucking fish and now – yep. Poofed away to follow a dragonfly, no fish catch in sight.

Wade stares at the screen, his controller slack in his grip.

As Spidey continues the chase, Wade’s brown-haired, brown-eyed character he’d named Ryan poofs over and over again to keep up with him, Wade having given up trying to play completely. This can’t go on. He sighs. “I bet it was just another carp.”

He feels a little better when Spidey catches the dragonfly and lets out a triumphant, “Finally!”

And then a lot better when Spidey scoots so he’s leaning against him, head on Wade’s shoulder. “Will it cheer you up any if I show you something I made for you?”

Wade throws an arm over Spidey’s shoulder and squeals. “You _made_ me something?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Um, is water wet?”

Spidey hums, seeming to think about it. He’d created a girl villager and named her May. She’s wearing a yellow sundress and has long straight brown hair, a black ballcap on her head. Under the cover of Wade’s arm, Spidey continues playing without him, letting his Ryan poof along for the ride. “I don’t think so? I mean, if something’s wet, then it’s covered or soaked in liquid. But water _is_ that liquid. Water makes other things wet, but by itself, it’s just… you know, water. A liquid can’t soak _itself_.”

Wade promptly bops Spidey on the nose, whose whole face scrunches under the Deadpool mask he hasn’t stopped wearing. He huffs out a breath of warm air through his nostrils that Wade can feel on his fingertip. Dollars to donuts he’s looking cross-eyed at Wade’s finger under that mask. Wade bops him again before he returns his finger to his own space, laughing. “Stop tryin’ to seduce me with your big brain and gimme my present.”

“Oh?” There’s a smile in Spidey’s voice. Wade relaxes at the sound. “Does talking about being wet make _you_ wet?”

Annnnd there goes the relaxation. Wade chokes. Spidey laughs at him choking.

“ _He’s_ the one who went there,” Wade hisses at White. Then, louder: “Keep talkin’ like that and you’ll find out fast, amigo.” He squeezes Spidey’s shoulders to emphasize how physically close they are at the moment, how easy it’d be for Spidey to tell if Wade Jr. took an interest. Honestly, he’s not sure what to make of these offhand sexual jokes Spidey’s been making, except that the ease with which he makes them leaves Wade a little hot under the collar. He wants to squirm or respond in kind. But he also doesn’t want to freak Spidey out or take it somewhere he doesn’t want to go. Wade’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t restrain himself, he’ll end up saying something that crosses whatever unspoken line they’ve drawn on the matter. Crossing lines is a bit of an accidental specialty sometimes. Almost the only way he knows not to do it is to zip up his lips because loose lips sink ships, and he’s desperate not to sink the SS Spideypool.

[We _will_ go down with this ship.]

[[I think I’d prefer to go down _on_ the ship. Multiple times.]]

Spidey doesn’t keep testing the waters, though. He usually doesn’t. It’s been one sexy comment here, move to the next topic, one sexy comment there, pretend like nothing happened. He pulls up his Nook phone on the game instead of commenting, goes to the custom designs and scrolls until he stops at one of the squares – an all-black square with a clearly distinguishable Deadpool face in the center, white mask eyes narrowed. Wade’s jaw drops at the sight of it, especially when he changes his little May character’s outfit so she’s wearing his face as a t-shirt, happily displaying Spidey’s creation.

“D’you like it?” Spidey asks. He twirls his character around on the screen.

“You made my face into a t-shirt,” Wade says.

“… I did do that.” Spidey nudges him with his shoulder. “It’s technically my face right now, too, but I think it’s a little less creepy if we say I made your face into a t-shirt instead of my own. I think May likes it, anyway. And you could use it as wallpaper instead if you’d rather not wear it. I’ve already got it up in my living room.”

“You made my face into _wallpaper_?”

Spidey’s hands still on the controller. His masked face glances up at him. “Um. Yes?” He raises his head from where it’d been leaning on Wade, looks him in the face, head tilted. “Do you not like it? I know you’ve got it trademarked and all, but I didn’t think –”

“Baby boy, I _love_ it!”

Wade stretches to retrieve his abandoned controller, making grabby hands for it when it’s hard to reach on the other end of the couch. Spidey webs it over to them, and Wade catches it as it comes sailing in his direction, giddy for more than one reason now because Spidey just used his spider powers for something trivial and screw him sideways if that isn’t a sign he’s getting comfortable around Wade. He lets go of Spidey so he can sit up and focus on the screen, feeling all sorts of warm and fuzzy inside at the sight of Spidey’s character wearing the Deadpool face. “Make me the leader, I wanna wear it right now! Tiny Ryan Reynolds is gonna look so fucking sweet in my merch! You are so fucking cool, I swear if you had a face that didn’t look just like my face I’d sew it on a real shirt and wear you around town!”

Spidey snorts, which will _never not sound cute, shut up_. “Making it sound a little creepy, Pool.”

“Sorry, what I meant was, I’d stamp your face onto tiny rainbow-colored marshmallow cereal bits and I’d eat you right up!”

“Nope, I think that’s worse.”

They don’t only play video games, of course. They’ve binged through over half of Supernatural, and then when they both got a little bored with the whole angsty brothers monster-of-the-week kicking-ass-taking-names thing, Wade introduced Spidey to _The Golden Girls_ and especially to Bea Arthur. They even took the online quiz to find out which golden girl they resembled most after Spidey insisted that Wade was too bubbly and fun to be Dorothy. Turned out he was right – Wade most resembled Blanche, at least according to the supposed experts who made the quiz. Spidey, however, got Dorothy, the lucky bastard.

“No wonder I like you so much!” Wade had exclaimed. “You’re gonna make a fine sassy little golden girl when you grow up.”

“As long as I don’t have to perm my hair like hers.”

Wade gasped, scandalized. “Dorothy’s hair is _respectable_ and _elegant_ , you heathen.”

“Okay, but can you picture _me_ with that fluffy silver up do?”

“… I’ll never _not_ picture that.”

Wade also taught Spidey how to cook, which apparently was _not_ on the list of things Weapon X prioritized in his training. Spidey proved naturally curious, however, and picked it up quickly. A few eggs might have been broken, but you’ve gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet, so that worked out. Spidey can now effectively scramble eggs, flip pancakes without burning them, and make a mean casserole. Because Spidey took to cooking and seemed to enjoy it so much, Wade had a new grocery order delivered into the hallway outside their front door every single day of the week, and they had a full fridge of leftovers ranging from Italian to favorite brunch staples to some halfway decent southern style grub and of course homemade tacos, which turned out at least marginally better than Taco Bell.

It’s been – well, _good_.

Being cooped up with Spidey is – _good_.

It feels like _home_ , that distinct warmth that settles in your bones when you’ve found someplace that’s yours and that’s _safe_ , but it’s got nothing to do with the crappy condo and everything to do with the person sharing the space with him. Spidey isn’t like any friend Wade’s ever had before. He’s way cuddlier, for one thing, tactile in a way that’s been seriously lacking in his life since his own stint in Weapon X. Spidey touches him like there’s nothing wrong with him, like he’s not nauseating, all simple and unthinking. People usually go out of their way to avoid contact with him, but Spidey _initiates_ it. Wade hasn’t worn gloves in the house since those first couple days, has grown almost accustomed to seeing his own hands again. It’s weird and different and Wade keeps expecting Spidey to change his mind or come to his senses. But every night, Spidey asks him to sleep in the bed with him. And every time they’re on the couch, Spidey sidles up beside him, close enough to feel Wade’s body heat through their clothes. He always stands close, or sits close, or leans close, and Wade’s a little punch drunk off the consistent contact and connection and closeness.

White’s concerned by the seeming attachment Spidey has to Wade, thinks it’s some twisted form of Stockholm syndrome or something. Yellow sees it more like a duckling imprinting on the first person it sees. Either way, they’re not wrong. He can’t help but think that Spidey would be like this with anybody. Wade’s just the ugly bastard who got lucky and found him first.

He’s also the ugly bastard who isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

[What the fuck kind of saying is that?]

[[Spidey’s not a _horse_.]]

_Fine_. He’s not about to look a gift _spider_ in the mouth.

It’s not all been smooth sailing, though. It took three days before Spidey asked to look through his Weapon X file. Anxious to get that particular trauma out of the way, Wade had set him up on his laptop and skedaddled to the shower. He’d stalled so long that the hot water ran cold and his skin felt sensitive and shriveled up. Poking his head out the bathroom, finding only silence, he’d snuck into the living room but his laptop was closed, discarded on an end table. He’d peeked in the bedroom, then, and found Spidey hidden under the mound of blankets on the bed, the room dark and still.

He’d tried sneaking back out, leaving Spidey to his nap.

Instead, a muffled, somber voice came from the blankets. “Pool?”

Wade froze. “You okay, Spidey?”

“No,” he’d said.

“I wish I could kill them all for you. I mean, again. I’d make it slower this time.”

His heart had clenched at the raw emotion in Spidey’s voice when he asked if Wade would lay with him. It was the middle of the day, but Wade couldn’t think of a single thing he’d rather do than cuddle Spidey in bed, so that’s what he did. Spidey swatted the blankets away like a pesky fly and curled around Wade instead. That hadn’t been enough, though, and he’d sat up to yank off his sweatshirt and throw it at the puddle of blankets on the floor, curling in close to Wade’s side shirtless. He grabbed one of Wade’s hands and interlocked their fingers together, the only bit of Wade’s skin he could touch through all of Wade’s layers. Wade clutched him back, got comfortable there in the dark room with his back pressed against the headboard, Spidey’s head on his chest. With his free hand, he’d rubbed Spidey’s back, careful not to touch that furry black tangle of spider limbs in the center. One of those legs twitched as Wade’s hand edged too close. He hummed a wordless tune, steering clear of those legs, running his fingertips over Spidey’s bare back until Spidey had fallen asleep.

Wade must have dozed off at some point, too, because the next thing he knew, Spidey was twitching against him, moaning like he was in pain, in the throes of an obvious nightmare. He’d tried to shake him awake with soft cooing sounds, but Spidey growled and then chomped down on the flesh under his head, fangs piercing through Wade’s clothes and sinking into his pectoral muscle. It felt like icy hot poured straight into his veins. Wade might have cried out, but it was over too soon to remember, that stabbing pain over in seconds, blacked out by unconsciousness and then, well, deadness.

And _then_ the next thing he knew, Spidey was crying above him, cool washcloth running over his bared chest as the spiderling whispered breathless apologies. Wade had made a garbled protest at the washcloth, swatting at Spidey’s hands and trying to pull his shirt back down to cover himself.

At his weak flailing, Spidey cried harder. “I’m so fucking sorry, Deadpool. I didn’t mean –”

“’s okay,” Wade waved a hand in the air, useless. “Um, shirt down, please?”

Spidey immediately yanked it back down, smoothing the fabric over Wade’s chest and stomach with shaking hands. He whispered again, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to – I wasn’t awake, but there’s no excuse, I can’t believe I killed you again, I’m sorry, please, I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll go, I can – I won’t hurt you again, I’ll go –”

Wade had whined at that, using all his strength to latch onto Spidey’s retreating arm.

Spidey stopped retreating, but he kept his head down, his arm stiff and unyielding under Wade’s hand. “I should – should go. I’m – I’m a m-monster, I can’t believe I _killed you_ –”

“’s literally not even a big deal,” Wade tried to explain. His tongue still felt all cotton-mouthy and swollen, his limbs still heavy. “I kill myself all the time. Or – or I used to. If anything, your presence makes me die _less_. Don’t go, just – c’mere, please?”

Wade managed to convince Spidey to lay back down, but he was stiff and wouldn’t stop crying, kept saying he should leave before he kills him again, blah blah blah. Honestly, the whole dying thing _wasn’t_ a big deal. The big deal was the panic that had Spidey killing him in the first place. Wade gradually regained full movement of his limbs, and he used that ability to wrap his arms around Spidey. Through the helpless feeling of not knowing what to do, Wade cooed at him like he’d tried to do when Spidey was still having his nightmare, all soft, repeated assurances, hand gripping one of Spidey’s, firm and not going anywhere. “Let it out, Spidey. It’s okay. You’re okay, pretty little spider. I gotcha.”

After a while, Spidey’s wracked, hitched breaths trailed off into sniffles.

“I’m twenty-six,” Spidey finally admitted into the silence.

Wade’s grip tightened on him, something squeezing his heart. That rage was bubbling back up, had him tensing, itching for blood. Because Spidey said that like – like he didn’t already know how old he was. Like being twenty-six was a _surprise_. Spidey swallowed hard. He pulled his hand out from Wade’s vice-like grip and pressed a palm flat against the flesh of Wade’s chest that he’d bitten, holding it there. Then he said, voice hesitant and pained, whisper quiet, “They had me for – for _fourteen years_.”

“ _Fuck me_.”

“Ask me again later,” was Spidey’s prompt response, a strangled laugh escaping him.

Wade could hear his pulse in his ears, could feel his blood boiling. He tamped it down as hard as he shut down the boxes, both of them roaring louder than that thumping pulse, a cacophony of noise and voices and more noise in his head. Weapon _fucking_ X. He could do the math. Spidey had been _a child_. He’d had his whole – his whole fucking childhood ripped out from under him. How long had Wade been with Weapon X? Months? He couldn’t even begin to _imagine_ fourteen goddamn years with those shitholes. How was Spidey so – sane?

What do you do when you can’t kill the bad guys any deader than he’d already killed them? Was it wrong to hope that some of the assholes in Spidey’s memory escaped the explosion? It’d been woefully understaffed as far as evil underground lairs went. Some of the assholes that plague Spidey’s dreams had to have been clocked out for the night, safely asleep in their beds when it all went down. Surely there are more of them he could hunt down… _they_ could hunt down once the dust settles. Spidey could _slaughter_ them now that the collar’s off. He fucking deserves those kills, and Wade plans to give them to him. But in that moment where he couldn’t do a goddamn thing, Wade tried to take the focus off Weapon X in his mind and funnel it into Spidey. Spidey, who was so goddamn _strong_ , who’d retained a soul in a place that would have sucked Wade’s clean out in that same amount of time.

But Spidey didn’t need Wade to tell him he was strong. Didn’t need anybody to congratulate him for surviving. Being strong because you went through shit? Sucky compensation. Wade could fill the silence with that, though. It’d be so easy. That’s what everybody says in response to trauma. ‘It made you stronger, you went through it and came out the other side better off for it, sucks that it happened but now look at you!’ Of course, that never applied to Wade, who came out the other side of trauma a mangled, disgusting trash pile. But if it had ever applied to anyone, it would be to Spidey, who’d rebelled against that collar the first chance he had, who’d licked Wade’s gnarly skin just to make sure he didn’t die in pain, who didn’t seem to fear Deadpool at all, but rather craved physical contact from him. Spidey had come out the other side with the guts to still ask for what he needed and the moral integrity Wade imagined could rival Captain America’s.

They didn’t say much else that day. They’d gotten up, eventually, and cooked. Wade tried to fill in Spidey’s sudden bout of silence with music, soft little humming tunes, an old lullaby he barely remembered from childhood. He’d rambled about who-even-knows-what, totally off-topic crap that had nothing to do with trauma or Weapon X or captivity. It had been hours later when they were neck deep in a Golden Girls marathon, Spidey’s head on Wade’s lap on the couch, when he finally said over another one of Rose’s stories about St. Olaf, “You ever wanna talk about it,” he didn’t need to clarify what _it_ was. Spidey immediately tensed up at it, so Wade rubbed his head through the mask and barreled onward, all faux casual, “I’ll listen. Or if you wanted to talk about it to somebody else, someone who’s not-me, I’d find someone for you. A therapist maybe? Or a bartender. Not _my_ bartender because he’s a shit listener who’d just ply you with liquor, but I’d find another one for you. Maybe a Starbucks barista? A cab driver? Again, not mine – well maybe mine, Dopinder listens pretty well, actually –”

Spidey had rubbed his head against Wade’s leg, then, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Thanks,” he’d said, mumbled against Wade’s leg. “I know you’d listen. I just don’t…”

When Spidey trailed off, helpless, Wade patted his head and said, “I get chu.”

And that had been the end of any and all mention of Weapon X between them.

-

-

-

Three weeks into their stay at Casa de Deadpool, Weasel finally calls.

It’s short and terse.

“ _Of course,_ we don’t watch the news. That shit’s _depressing_.”

“You’re a wanted fucking criminal literally waiting around for news. Watch the damn news!”

Weasel hangs up on him again, which is really starting to grind Wade’s gears. Also, he doesn’t _want_ to watch the news. All biased, misleading information, focused on depressing shit. Those news reporters talking in their robotic, informative voices while relaying major catastrophes to the world. Do you even have a soul if you can stand so calmly in front of a literal fire raging in the building behind you and just – talk into the camera? There are literal firefighters risking life and limb behind you, brah, go help a mofo and stop droning on about it. Of course, Wade is a literal mercenary who accepts fat cash to gank people, so. Also, he’s definitely sat back and watched the Avengers take on assorted animal-themed villains before, popcorn tub at the ready and a running commentary going back and forth between him and the boxes. What can he say, the Avengers fighting annoying B-level villains is a hoot and a half. He’s won two bets against Yellow about how long it’d take Brucie Bear to hulk out, too. What’s the harm?

[[Okay well you’ve also _lost_ four bets, don’t forget.]]

[Talk about reporting misleading facts, DP.]

Spidey hands him a plate loaded down with his newest creation and plops into the seat beside him with his own. They roll their masks up to their noses in unison, Wade immediately inhaling the rich aroma of the lasagna Spidey had been preparing for the last three hours. Christ, he hasn’t eaten so well in… shit, _ever_. Spidey’s going to spoil him rotten, how will Wade ever go back to cheap takeout once this is all over?

Of course, then Spidey goes and ruins Wade’s carb-laden bliss by turning on the news.

Those damn spider ears hear _everything_.

The breaking headlines have nothing to do with Deadpool, though.

“Oh look, the Avengers saved the world again.”

Spidey shushes him mid-bite, apparently enthralled by Avenger shenanigans. Wade catches the headline at the bottom and gets pulled in despite himself. _BREAKING: World Security Council Secretary is Hydra!_ Oh, and he’s dead now, along with dozens of others… Nick Fury on the list. Wade’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth, jaw dropped at the sight of the smoking wreckage of blown-up helicarriers and the scrolling list of exposed Hydra operatives that goes on and on and on. A well-groomed lady in a blue and white dress suit stands with a microphone in front of the Potomac River, the once-tall Triskelion only half-standing, cut clean in half with metal debris and little fires here and there all around. She’s detailing in that faux-concerned detached reporter voice the leaked Shield files that expose Hydra’s plan to data-mine and identify people who could pose a threat to Hydra and eliminate them before they could become a problem. Smart thinking, actually, very pre-emptive boy-scout planning-ahead of them. Wade would have been impressed if their plan had worked. Why can’t Wade’s immortal evil organization be half as intelligent? He gets stuck with idiots like _Francis_.

This is all well and good, the Avengers saving the day again and all.

But what does it have to do with Deadpool?

“Weasel’s cracked his cranium,” he says through a mouthful of melted cheese. “This doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“That might be the point,” Spidey says.

It takes a second, but then it clicks. “Ooh, you’re right!”

He’s probably still wanted in New York, but this shit’s _all over_ the news, an international crisis that’s got well-respected politicians around the globe suddenly wanted for being Hydra, all sorts of Shield upheaval (if Shield’s even still a thing at all, jury’s still out about it), the Avengers are taking heat for all the property damage, Black Widow herself fielding questions about how she dropped top secret intel into the public’s hands. It’s a _mess_. Captain America is nowhere to be found. There’s speculation about a new Avenger on the scene, a man with metal wings caught on camera flying around battling undercover Hydra agents. Wade flips from channel to channel, all media coverage focused on this explosion of political turmoil. One channel’s got Alexander Pierce’s daughter already mid-interview, crying about how she had no idea her father could have been Hydra. On another, a whole flock of paparazzi ambush Tony Stark as he’s trying to get into a sleek black car, yelling question after question and flashing cameras in his face. Why wasn’t he fighting with the Avengers in Washington D.C.? Did they have a falling out? What was Iron Man’s involvement? Who is the new Avenger spotted fighting with Captain America above the Potomac? Has he replaced Iron Man as the flier of their super team?

Tony Stark grins into the shaky camera that’s zoomed in on his face, flashes a peace sign and says no comment.

“Geez,” Wade says as they flip from news station to news station, eyes wide on the screen. “You sure miss a lot that goes on in the world when you’re playing Animal Crossing.”

“At least it’s not New York that’s on fire this time.”

“True that! Hey, this is perfect, lemme just – stay right there, I made _you_ something this time!” Wade sets his lasagna on the table and rolls off the couch, bounces away, disappearing into the bedroom with a whirlwind of excited flutters in his belly because this is it! The Avengers have officially done him a _solid_ by wrecking Washington D.C. because nobody’s going to be looking for Deadpool in the ensuing chaos. Spidey hasn’t given any indication that he’s at all restless being cooped up here. He doesn’t even peek through the curtains to look out the window. But that’s probably because he doesn’t want to risk anybody seeing the Deadpool mask. The fact is, he’s gotta be going at least a little stir crazy by now. Nobody’s lived in close quarters with Wade this long without going just a little bonkers. Spidey must just hide it well, being used to slavery and all. They’d taken a risk a few nights ago and climbed to the roof of the condominiums, both with hoodies pulled down low to hide the masks. They hadn’t run into anyone, luckily, and stayed out well into the night on the rooftop together, talking and smelling the less-than-fresh-but-still-outdoors cool night air. Spidey’s steps have been lighter for it, less tense. They could both do with more outdoor time.

Luckily, Spidey sleeps way more than Wade does, because he’s been able to stay up late or wake up early to work on Spidey’s surprise. He’d finished it three nights ago, but he never found a good time to give it to him, never sure what he’d even say. But being able to go outside changes everything. He _needs_ the surprise, now.

Spidey’s standing up and wringing his hands together, waiting for him to return.

The white mask eyes shoot straight to the bundle of blue and red fabric in Wade’s arms. Spidey’s hands still, drop to his sides. He tilts his head. “Did you actually make me a t-shirt with my – our face on it?”

Wade giggles. “While the idea sounds adorable –”

“You mean creepy?”

“– it wouldn’t help you _at all_ to have even more connections to Deadpool, so no, sadly, my dreams of you wearing my face on all your casual wear are dashed by logic –”

“Thank you, logic.”

“– but I’m hella handy with a needle. I made my own Deadpool suit, you know.” He puffs out his chest, proud of the accomplishment. The Deadpool suit is fucking _badass_ , and yes he does say so himself. Spidey gestures for him to go on, his mask eyes wide and focused on the bundle in Wade’s arms still, so he clears his throat and says, “Loads of trial and error, mind you, but the result – no, Yellow, you did not help with the design! You were the one who originally said we should wear white as a symbolism for irony, you don’t get to make any design choices ever again. It’s impossible to find good help these days. _Honestly_. No, this bad boy was all me. You can’t keep wearing my mask, baby boy. It’s a little big on you anyway, and besides, you don’t look like a Deadpool. It’s totally not your color. So I – well, see for yourself. Tada!”

Wade holds out the bundle, a grin stretching the fabric of his own mask.

Curious, Spidey takes it, hands roving over the material, feeling the soft, stretchy fabric, eyes wide. He sets the bundle down and picks up the item on the top, a soft hitched breath escaping as he holds it up.

His own mask.

His own whole suit, actually. Deadpool hopes he got the measurements right. He can’t help but bounce on the balls of his feet and shoo the frozen, gaping Spidey into the bedroom to try it all on, too excited to wait. He’d had brand new clothes for Spidey delivered week one so that he didn’t feel weird wearing Wade’s old hand-me-downs, so he knew his basic sizes, but a skintight suit is all sorts of different from a plain old size M. He’ll probably need to make adjustments.

Spidey peeks his head out the door, his voice uncertain. “It’s a little – it, um.”

Wade gasps at the sight of his newly masked head, squealing in delight. “You look awesome! C’mon, c’mon, show me the rest, I’m dying here smalls!”

“It’s tight,” Spidey complains.

Wade huffs, waves a dismissive hand. “I figured I’d need to make adjustments. You’re at least decent, right? C’mon,” he whines when Spidey still won’t come out. “I’m the seamstress! You gotta show me what needs seamstress-ing!”

“I really appreciate you making this for me, Pool.” Still Spidey lingers in the doorway. His new mask fits to his face like a second skin, stretched taut where the Deadpool mask had bunched up. This way, Wade can clearly see his lips pulled into a frown. Spidey’s arms are moving behind the door, adjusting himself in the suit. He says again, “It’s just a little tighter than I’m used to. And more colorful. I guess it’s cool that it’s nothing like the uniform I wore in Weapon X… hard to be stealthy like this, though. But the mask is – I mean, the webbing on it is beautiful. How did you –”

“Chef’s secret, Spidey. If I told you I’d have to kill you.”

“Um.”

Wade giggles again. “Jay Kay, bro. I’ll show you later, it’s delicate work you know. But can I pretty please see the delicate work I spent hours laboring over? Please? I promise not to laugh! It’s my fault anyway because I’m the one who made it too tight, it’ll help now that you know about it so I can actually take your measurements this time.”

Spidey swallows, warns him again that it’s tight, and then the door is creaking open and he’s shuffling out, one newly-gloved hand tugging at the fabric around his crotch, shoulders rounded forward. Wade chokes on anything he was about to say, mouth suddenly dry in the ensuing silence as he gaps at Spidey decked out in the red and blue costume, spandex leaving _nothing_ to the imagination. He can immediately tell exactly where it was tight, exactly _which appendage_ Wade underestimated, shit he did this to himself didn’t he, he’ll never get this sight out of his head again, never in a million years –

Spidey looks _good enough to eat_.

[[Holy shit he’s been holding out on us, Spidey’s _ripped_.]]

[… I plead the fifth, don’t ask me about it, I’ll have to lie, oh God –]

That old black stealth suit he’d been wearing when they first met had nothing on _this_. The blue and red accentuates every corded muscle on his slender frame, hugs them and shows them off in equal measure. Wade’s always known that Spidey’s strong, but he’s been hiding under baggy hoodies and sweatshirts for weeks now, and the stark difference between that ensemble and this one is just – mouthwateringly striking. It also reveals a little something else about Spidey, hugs his package nice and firm. Spidey squirms under his heated gaze, makes to shuffle back into the bedroom. “I told you it was –”

“You’re hot!” Wade blurts, freezing Spidey in place mid-shuffle.

He’d made Spidey’s mask eyes as expressive as Deadpool’s, and right now they’re wide-eyed and panicked.

Wade quickly backtracks, waving his arms around. “I mean, it’s totally a little bit tight, I can fix it, I _will_ fix it because if anybody got a load of you – shut up Yellow _oh my God_ – they’d die from the spank bank overload, I mean not that I – not that you – uh, I’m not sure how to dig myself out of this hole right now, any help would be much appreciated, I swear I’m not usually this spastic –”

“I feel like you _are_ usually this spastic.”

Wade releases a breath. “… you’ve got me pegged.”

[[OH GOD LET ME SAY IT]]

[DON’T YOU DARE]

[[… I WANT TO DARE]]

[DON’T YOU EVEN –]

[[Please peg us, Spider-Man! I WANNA BE PEGGED]]

[SHUT UP SHUT UP –]

Wade groans out loud and slaps his hands over his ears, moaning at the sudden _pain_ from all the _noise_. Spidey steps toward him then, his uncertain voice asking if he’s all right, and Wade waves him back into the bedroom, his own voice a few octaves too high as he says he needs to go get his tape measure and then beats a hasty retreat out into the hallway. Once out there, he beats his head against the wall a few times and then a few dozen more, until the boxes finally shut their gobs and Wade realizes his tape measure is literally inside the room he’d just told Spidey to wait for him in. “Fuck me sideways!”

[[YES PLEASE]]

-

-

-

“I thought you said I couldn’t keep wearing your Deadpool mask because it wasn’t my color?”

“Well yeah, it totally wasn’t –”

“This new mask is red too, Pool.”

“… it’s got cool webbing, it’s completely different in every way.”

“Even the eyes are white with black around them. You sure people won’t think I’m you in this?”

“Naw, don’t worry Spidey. If anything, people will think I’m _you_.”

“But nobody knows _me_.”

“… foiled again. Just hold still and let me at those big beautiful thighs, this’ll only take a –”

“You are _ridiculous_ , give me that tape measure –”

-

-

-

He’d tried giving Fury time to handle the whole Deadpool issue. He’d been the patron saint for _patient_. Hell, he’d even forgotten entirely about it for a solid week straight during that last work binge, although to be fair he’d forgotten entirely about eating or sleeping or hygiene during that same span of time. It feels strange getting back into the swing the things post-Mandarin.

Or more accurately, post arc reactor.

But Pepper’s back to working order, no more flaming and fire lava incidents to be had. And he’s healthier than he’s been since before Iron Man, his chest twelve times lighter, every breath just a little less constricted. Of course, it makes perfect sense that right around the time he gets his own chaos wrapped up, Rogers has to go and blow up the Triskelion and Fury has the guts to go and _die_. It looks like Fury won’t be handling the whole Deadpool issue any time soon. Still, there’s the pesky matter of the giant crater leveled in Long Island, the even peskier matter of the twenty-seven bodies found already. Deadpool isn’t exactly someone he wants to fight, but he’s not sure any of the heroes left from the whole Project Insight mess are in any position to be doing it. Cap is somewhere in the wind, apparently hunting down an old war buddy who’s murderous and brainwashed. Probably gonna take up all his time for a while. Natasha’s taking the brunt of the fallout with the media ( _thank God it’s not him this time_ ). He hasn’t heard from Clint lately, not that a bow and arrow seems like the way to go against Deadpool anyway. And Bruce – well. He’s Bruce.

And Fury’s out.

All of Shield, come to think of it.

Tony has no access to one of those mutant-dampening collars, but frankly he’s tired of dealing with everybody’s shit, and there’s nothing like a little fight with an unpredictable nut job who can’t die. Perfect opportunity to test the latest Hulkbuster before it’s gotta be put to any real test against the real thing, anyway.

It’s with a put-upon sigh that Tony suits up.

“Wanna take Veronica out for a playdate, Jarv?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.”


	9. Where's those pretty eyes?

9\. Where’s those pretty eyes?

-

-

-

A day after Weasel’s phone call, a package arrives in the mail.

[Fucking _finally_.]

[[Does this mean what I think it means?]]

[Unless it’s a bomb. Is it ticking?]

Wade holds it up to one ear to check. But the oversized brown envelope is silent, too innocuous for all the feelings the sight of it dredges up. It’s a good thing, he reminds Yellow and White. He doesn’t need the reminder, because obviously it’s a good thing. Weasel wouldn’t have sent it if he hadn’t worked out all the details, if he hadn’t fixed it to Wade’s specifications. Still, a bomb wouldn’t have stung quite this much, wouldn’t have struck like a blow to the chest.

[[I’m pretty sure a bomb would have done that literally.]]

[Shut up, everybody knows emotional blows hurt worse than physical ones.]

[[… even worse than a bomb to the face?]]

[Humans are complicated creatures.]

He takes the envelope inside, shutting the door with his foot as he hovers at the threshold and watches Spidey fiddle with the toaster. Spidey’s already got it dismantled, metal odds and ends in pieces on the coffee table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he plays with the wiring. Wade can’t tell if he knows what he’s doing or if he’s just winging it, but anything he does to it can’t be worse than the unevenly toasted breads it produced before, the tops always singed. The past three weeks have been filled with similarly weird little domestic moments. Wade stands on the doormat, marveling at the scene from a distance, a sudden outsider looking in. Something about Deadpool cuddling up to a sweet boy like Spidey every night feels – _obscene_ , almost. He didn’t even need the boxes to tell him that, either. These weird, off feelings have been building all along, and the only thing that can fix them is what’s inside this fucking envelope. He wouldn’t have pursued it, otherwise. He doesn’t _want_ their domestic bliss bubble to pop, fuck no. But it can’t stay the same, either. This situation is too – skeevy. Too unfair to Spidey, who can’t feel the true measure of freedom without also having _choices_.

Deadpool can’t pretend Spidey’s sticking around because of his wit and charm alone.

[I don’t mean to brag, but our wit is LIT.]

[[Eh, I wouldn’t go that far. And even if I would, lit wit’s not enough to get anyone to stick around your cheese-grated pus face.]]

No, Spidey’s here because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

Spidey seems to sense that something’s off, or maybe he’s just wondering why Deadpool hasn’t moved from the front door, because his hands pause on the toaster and he lifts his head to stare at him, even does his whole curious head-tilt thing. The thick manilla envelope gets a narrow-eyed look, then he looks back down at the mess of metal bits on the table and sets down the bundle of wires, sitting back on the couch. The air feels charged between them. Deadpool can already feel their happy little domestic bubble stretched taut, minutes away from bursting like all bubbles do eventually. This whole thing would go so much better if they could see each other’s faces. White and Yellow immediately express their opinions about _that_ idea, but Deadpool can’t shake it. He’s not sure he can deliver this sincerely in a way that Spidey will trust if he can’t even see Wade’s face when he does it. The Deadpool mask is expressive, sure, but it’s not _real_. Spidey’s already said he liked seeing him. That seeing Wade’s face was – was _comforting_.

[And you trust that? It was a pity lie!]

[[He’ll never come back if you take your mask off. This is literally gonna be the last time you ever see the guy.]]

Deadpool grips the mail tighter so the paper crinkles.

[Don’t you want him to come back?] White sounds plaintive.

[[How can anything about your face be _comforting_? You’re an idiot if you believe something so fucking dumb. It wasn’t even a _believable_ lie. It’s a fantasy. Vanessa _hurled chunks_ trying to tolerate being around you and she _loved_ you. You said it yourself – Spidey’s only here because he’s got no other choice, and you’re about to give him a hell of a better choice. At least let him leave with his stomach intact.]]

[He might even _come back once and a while_ if you don’t show him the freakshow.]

Fucking Weasel. He just had to send this all out on a bad brain day, didn’t he?

Wade might have released a whimpering sound, too low to have heard over the chaos erupting inside his head. Too late does he remember that Spidey can’t _hear_ how loud Yellow and White are being, can’t hear all this fucking screaming. Spidey’s on his feet and padding over to him before Wade can retreat back out to the hallway for another head banging session. He asks him what’s wrong at the same time as he sets a stabling hand on Wade’s arm. Deadpool tenses like a spooked animal.

Spidey immediately releases him, steps a pace away, hands raised. “Pool?”

His masked eyes land again the package in Deadpool’s white-knuckled grip. “What’s in the –?”

Before Spidey can finish the question, Wade reaches up and rips his mask off.

For a moment, time stands still. Spidey goes wide-eyed and quiet, the boxes both freeze mid yell, and Wade just – Wade just stands there, his own eyes wide and scared, the scrap of limp fabric a tempting weight in his hand. Everybody who’s ever gotten sick at the sight of his skin flashes before his eyes. For a moment, it’s not Spidey standing there. It’s Ness with her half downturned grimace, her forced, stiff acceptance. It’s Weas blanching when Wade lowered his hood for that first glimpse, his rambled, horror-stricken list of comparisons. Avocados hate-fucking. It’s that little girl at the hotdog stand with her parents, throwing up on Wade’s boots. The old man at the diner hiding behind a newspaper. Francis with his mocking little grin. Hundreds of horrified glances, pitying whispers, Yellow and White telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth for the rest of eternity. It’s Wade himself staring back at him, catching a glimpse and hugging the porcelain throne. He wants to be sick right now.

He sucks in a breath in the silence, tries to calm his rolling stomach.

“You said it was comforting to see – you know. This. So.” Wade very suddenly does not want to talk about his skin. Or think about how visible his face is, every ridge and bump and sore. “Tada! In all my horror movie glory. Pretty sure those zombies on Evil Dead got nothing on me. If you – were you just saying that? About the comforting thing? Because I really wanted you to see how fucking serious I am right now, but if you’re gonna be sick I’ll totally slip this thing back on, it’s not gonna hurt my feelings –”

It’ll totally hurt Wade’s feelings.

Which is ridiculous. He wouldn’t blame anybody but himself, either –

But Spidey steps closer, lays another hand on Wade’s arm. No hesitation. Just a solid, firm hand that grips him, space enough only for the package between them. His masked eyes stare into his exposed ones and he squeezes Wade’s arm. “You’re okay,” is the first thing Spidey says. Wade’s ticker thumps weird in his chest at that earnest, soothing timber. “It _is_ comforting. Thank you for showing me. But why –” Spidey trails off and tugs him toward the couch. “Come on, let’s sit. I want to hug you.”

“You want to –” Wade lets himself be pulled, too shellshocked to protest.

“I want to hug you almost all the time,” Spidey says it like it’s nothing. “No point in being surprised by it now.”

“I’m never _not_ surprised by it,” Wade points out.

“Well stop that.” Spidey gives him a little shove until he falls into the couch, then takes the package out of his hands and sets it aside on the floor beside their feet. Wade can’t get his heart to stop racing, and he sits stiff and unbendy even when Spidey sidles up beside him, links one arm into one of Wade’s and leans his head on Wade’s shoulder. This moment feels – fragile. If Wade moves, even an inch, even a twitch, it feels like Spidey will pull away, change his mind, run for the hills. Or maybe Spidey’s got his head on Wade’s shoulder because then he doesn’t have to see the face right above him. And that’s okay. That’s a solid strategy. Admirable, even, except for the fact that the thought makes him feel two seconds away from the mother of all panic attacks. It’s a miracle he’s sitting still right now, for how jumpy and squirrely everything on the inside feels. The boxes have come back with a vengeance, and his head _aches_ with their incessant noise. When he does move, it’s only to run his fingertips over the seams on his mask, itching to put it back on.

“What’s this all about?” Spidey asks.

It’s a fair question. Wade breathes in the scent of him, for once not hindered by fabric.

“That envelope is yours,” he finally says, reluctant.

Spidey hums, nudges him a little, so Wade exhales and decides to get this shitshow the fuck over with. “I had Weasel get you set up with a life that’s not connected to me. Like, at all. Even Weas doesn’t know what’s all in there. If he knows what’s good for him, anyway. Had him go through about a dozen different middlemen. Or, middle-women? Middle-people, whatever. The point is, you are now the proud owner of some sort of sweet ass apartment somewhere in New York. Not a clue where, or what it looks like, or which part of the city, or hell, maybe it’s a condo? A row home? Shit, I don’t know.” Spidey had tensed against him as soon as the first sentence was out of his mouth. Now, in the face of Wade’s defeated rambling, he pulls away entirely, scoots down the couch so they’re facing each other. It makes Wade even more nervous, which shouldn’t have been possible, and he can’t tell what he’s thinking with that fucking mask in the way. He’s just – staring, mask eyes narrow and his mouth pressed against the fabric in a flat line.

Wade starts wringing his own mask in his hands, and words spew out like puke. He can’t keep looking at Spidey’s mask. He looks off to the right instead, at the black dark screen of the quiet tv. White and Yellow were right – taking off the mask was a _shit_ idea. “You’re the owner of a piece of property. Something safe and clean, those were the nonnegotiables. The deed’s in the envelope, it’ll have all the deets. We gotchu a paper trail, too. Birth certificate, driver’s license, tax records, a solid work history with real-life references who don’t wanna get up close and personal with all my hard spots, so they’ll talk you up real pretty to anybody who tries to call them. Like, a whole forged life.”

Wade steals glances at Spidey while he babbles, but it’s not looking good. Spidey might as well be a statue carved right there on the couch. He tries to lighten his delivery, soften his words. It’s no easy feat talking past his own nonsensical heartbreak, but he’s done plenty of hard things, and fuck if he doesn’t wish that were in the fun way. “Should be a phone in there too, house keys, a wallet with enough cash to get you started. You’ve got electric and water set up already, even told Weas to make sure the place was furnished, but I mean, if you don’t like whatever’s in there, it’s yours. Feel free to dump it all and start fresh. I just wanted to give you a baseline, you know. Something to start out with.”

“Are you –” Spidey swallows. His hands are balled into fists on his lap. “D’you want me to –go?”

“ _Hell no_ I don’t.” This is why Wade isn’t wearing the mask right now. So Spidey can _see_.

But Spidey’s voice is still small, _lost_. “Well then why…”

“Shit, Spidey, I’ve been so – you being here, you being with me, it’s – it’s fucking magic, okay? But I know you’re only here because you didn’t have anywhere else to go, and that’s bullshit. I get that I’m not the easiest person to tolerate, and you – you should have more than just me as an option. You should have an option that lets you do whatever the fuck you want with whoever the fuck you want to do it with. Here, it’s like you just changed jailers, and that’s the _last_ thing I wanna be to you. I figured if – well, if you had someplace else to go, somewhere I don’t even know about and have no way of knowing about, then you could, you know, finally have control over your own existence. Get to choose if you want to get a job, have a normal life, whatever it is. I needed you to know that you don’t _have_ to stay with me."

Spidey takes in a slow breath.

“And if I want to?”

Wade and the boxes all freeze. “Well that’s – how can you be _sure_ –”

“I have an aunt.”

“You sure there’s only one? We leave a lot of takeout boxes lying around –”

“Really? No, not –”

“– and honestly I’m hurt you’d stake a claim like that, _our_ ants are at least sixty percent mine –”

But Spidey’s not talking about actual ants. No, he has a relative-shaped, breathing bonafide _aunt_ , who apparently hasn’t ever stopped looking for him, if the police records are worth anything. Spidey explains it all, quick and factual. How his Weapon X file had given the cliff notes of who he’d been before. Richard and Mary Parker, mother and father – deceased. Ben Parker, uncle – deceased. May Parker, aunt – living, threat level 2. They’d kept sparse tabs on the woman over the years, enough to log all of her hopeless attempts to keep the search for her missing nephew alive, enough to change her threat level from a 1 to that 2, the change dated four years prior. A video file was attached marked with that same date, local news coverage from a small, privately owned agency that showed a somber, petite middle-aged woman, begging for any insights as to the whereabouts of her nephew Peter Parker who’d disappeared ten years ago. She’d shown an old photo of the then-tween Peter. Even had a sketch artist drawing of what he might look like now.

[Can I just pause here and marvel at the fact that we’ve lasted this long without peeking into his file ourselves?]

[[It does warrant marveling.]]

[Ha, _marvel_. I see what I did there.]

_Shut up, I can be patient._

“Not to knock the artist, but he got present-me all wrong,” Spidey says, and his head dips in the way Wade’s come to realize is him trying to hide a smile. Not that his smile would be visible anyway, because _mask_ , but Spidey does it without thinking about it, a habit born from not being allowed to smile for more than half his life, now, Wade suspects. Wade’s seen him do it enough when his mask is pulled up to eat to know what those lips must look like right now, that awkwardly charming upward quirk to one side.

“What?” Wade squawks in mock outrage. “Y’mean he _didn’t_ draw you as a spider?”

“Afraid not.”

“That man needs to send in his resignation, stat. How you gonna draw my boy without all his legs – and wait! You’re Peter Parker!”

Spidey rears back at his outburst, says a weary, drawn out, “Yes?”

“I’m Wade Wilson!” Wade lunges forward on the couch to scoop up one of Spidey’s hands and give it a few excited pumps up and down. Spidey’s arm flops with the vigorous handshake, eyes wide as saucers, but when Wade goes to release his hand, Spidey curls his fingers and grips him tight. Something warm settles into Wade’s chest at the touch. He squeezes his hand. “We’re alliteration buddies! No, alliteration _amigos_! Get it? Because alliteration.”

Spidey doesn’t seem as enthused. “Can you just keep calling me Spidey? Peter Parker feels like a stranger.”

“Course I will! But, um – hypothetically, does Tom Holland also feel like a stranger?”

Spidey tilts his head. “Considering I don’t know any Tom Holland’s, I’m gonna have to go with yes.” And then, with a creeping suspicion, he adds a wary, “Why?”

“Welllll.” With his free hand, Wade scratches at a scab on his chin, which ends up being a bad idea because it comes off under a fingernail and blood wells to the surface. He quickly scrubs a sleeve over it, staunching the flow, a little amazed that Spidey’s hand still tightens on his when he tries to pull away. He tries not to touch his face again, but of course now that he’s trying not to do something, he suddenly feels every little itch, every rippling sore. His leg starts bouncing as a distraction. What were they talking about again? Oh, oh. “I didn’t exactly know your birth name, did I? I had to call you something for all the fake-official documents, Spidey seemed like a less-than convincing one-name made-up word, and Tom Holland could be your British cousin from another mother. Yeah, yeah, of course I know cousins have different mothers by definition, it’s a popular saying, don’t you have anything better to do than poke holes in all my sayings – and before the readers get all their panties in a bunch, Tom only _plays_ a teenager. Don’t let his adorable baby face and spazzy mannerisms fool you, he’s totally old in real life. But shit, he plays a teenager way better than John Travolta in Grease, amirite?”

[A whap babba lou bob, a whap bam boo!]

[[I need a man, who can keep me satisfied!]]

“I guess Tom Holland sounds about as right as Peter Parker. It’s – this is all –” Spidey groans in frustration and releases Wade so he can bury his face in his hands. After much cajoling from the boxes, Wade sets a hand on Spidey’s shoulder in what he hopes is a show of solidarity, despite the fact that he can’t make heads or tails of what Spidey might be feeling right now. Sad? Mad? Both?

“’M not mad,” Spidey mumbles into his hands.

Had Wade wondered that out loud?

Finally, Spidey raises his head. “The point I’d been trying to make was that I have an aunt who might still be looking for me, and a name, and I could have – well, the awkwardness might have killed me, but I could have gone to her. Since the night I read that file, I’ve had another option. This has all felt a little surreal, honestly, but – but it’s been good, and I’m pretty sure it’s only been that way because of you.”

[…]

[[…]]

Wade’s not sure what his very exposed face is doing in response to that, but it must be doing _something_ because Spidey leans forward and wraps his arms around him, pulls him into his well-defined chest and squeezes. Wade only resists for a second, and then only because he’s too stunned to move, before he’s melting into the embrace and returning it the best he can with one arm smooshed against his side. Everything seems to hit him in that moment. Being held, being hugged, Spidey’s earnest voice, everything he’s saying, everything he’s not. The vulnerability of his fucked-up face on full display. Adrenaline’s got him this far, apparently, because all at once Wade’s crashing hard, hands shaking and heart pounding. White titters in sympathy when he starts crying in Spidey’s arms like a fucking loser. Yellow seems to be trying very hard to say nothing at all. But it doesn’t even matter what they think; it matters what Spidey thinks. Wade hides his ruined face in Spidey’s shoulder and can’t seem to stop crying. And like everything else about Wade, it ain’t the pretty sort of crying, either.

Why is Spidey letting him snot all over him like this? Wade should have just kept the mask on. Then none of this – none of these _feelings_ would be even happening right now, and he wouldn’t be feeling so pathetic, and the crying sure as shit doesn’t help with that at all –

The sound of fabric tearing has Wade lifting his head, sniffling. Those long, black spider legs he hasn’t seen in weeks rip through Spidey’s sweatshirt and wrap around Wade on all sides. Spidey adjusts his arms to free up Wade’s trapped one, pulls him closer when Wade wraps his freed arm around Spidey’s middle. He’s very suddenly cocooned in legs, wrapped tight in them. He ducks his head back into the safety of Spidey’s shoulder, marveling at the silence in his head, awash in what feels remarkably like safety, like _home_.

“You make me feel like I’m normal,” Spidey’s saying. “Like I can _be_ normal. Do you realize how impossible I always thought that would be?” Each leg tightens against him, a squeezing sort of embrace as though to emphasize how _not_ normal they are. Spidey huffs out what sounds like the ghost of a laugh. Wade’s gone quiet in his arms. It feels all at once too quiet. “Nobody’s ever let me hug them like this before. Not that I would have wanted to hug anyone else I’ve ever met, but – but you like it.”

His voice sounds awed. Like a revelation just now realized.

Wade’s not sure he can speak through the lump in his throat or the vice squeezing his heart.

White and Yellow aren’t even speaking. They feel far away.

Spidey shifts under him, moves one arm. Then a hand is cupping his scarred face and lifting it so their eyes meet. The coolness of Spidey’s hand feels soothing against his rippling skin, even as the contact makes his heart skip, makes him flinch. But he lets go as soon as Wade’s looking at him. He lets go and grabs at the base of his mask, hesitating there, searching for something in Wade’s face. He must find what he’s looking for, because he takes a slow, deep breath, and his hand pulls the mask up, up, up, over his nose, over his eyes, exposing the tuft of untamed curls that frame his face. He peels the mask off slow and careful, and when it’s finally off, when he lets it plop discarded on the floor beside the couch, his eyes are squeezed shut and he seems to hold his breath.

Wade can feel himself crooning at him. It all feels far away. An out-of-body experience.

But he reaches up and runs one finger down the side of Spidey’s smooth face.

Spidey shudders.

“Don’t have to be scared, Spidey,” he whispers, crooning. “Where’s those pretty eyes?”

Spidey exhales. He reaches up and grips Wade’s hand with his own, pulls it away from his face. The past weeks of domestic bliss have felt surreal, like some fever dream that’s bound to end at some point, that’s bound to end at _any moment_. But if that felt surreal, then today feels positively _unreal_. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Wade was supposed to give Spidey that package and Spidey was supposed to take it and go, maybe with a quick thank you, but he was supposed to jump at the chance to live on his own, jump at the chance to get away from Deadpool. Wade was prepared to beg for Spidey’s new phone number, prepared to be nothing more than a pesky texter, or hell, prepared to be nothing at all if that’s what Spidey wanted. It was supposed to be what Spidey wanted. But now those spider legs wrapped around him are gripping him tight, as though scared _Wade’s_ the one who’s going to run. The pressure of them is almost bruising as Spidey hunches his shoulders, sucks in another shaky breath, and then – then he –

opens his eyes.

Round, solid black eyes stare at him, wide and clearly scared. They aren’t the eyes of a human; no iris, no white, no color, just solid black and unnaturally rounded. Spidey’s eyes dart away from his face, and it’s hard to tell that they’ve moved at all, except that Wade’s reflection in them moves. But they seem to shimmer in the light, and they’re so distinctly _Spidey_ that Wade thinks he could even get used to having to see his own face reflected back in those black little mirrors. Spidey’s eyes move again as they look back at him, Wade’s face sliding into view in those rounded eyes. Wade’s mouth moves before he thinks about it, _he_ moves before he can think about it, darting forward to press a quick, chaste peck against Spidey’s open mouth. He rears back immediately, as much as their embrace allows, as much as Spidey’s tightening legs allow.

“You’re beautiful,” Wade says. Not exactly the poetry he wishes he could vocalize right now, but Spidey sucks in a breath at it anyway.

After what feels like forever, Spidey swallows, says a hoarse, “See? You make me feel _normal_.”

“There’s literally nothing normal about you, Spidey,” Wade says, because this needs to be cleared up _immediately_. Spidey tenses, his legs flexing where they’re still holding onto Wade, but Wade won’t let him go, won’t let him pull back. He gestures in between them the best he can, since they’re so close there’s almost no room to gesture in between them at all. “Normal wouldn’t have stuck around this long. Normal wouldn’t want to sleep beside something that looks like roadkill, or hug me, or sit next to me, or let me keep my fucking gloves off around him, let alone my mask. Normal wouldn’t be able to stomach it. I had normal for a long time, and trust me – normal is _bullshit_. There’s _conditions_ with normal. I’d choose you over normal any hour of the day.”

“So you still wouldn’t mind if I – if I stayed?”

“What, because I just now found out how pretty your eyes are?” Wade bops him on the nose, grins at Spidey’s scrunched face. “I dunno, I need to think about it first –”

Spidey does finally open the package hours later, after they’ve cuddled and eaten and cuddled some more against the backdrop of a Golden Girls marathon. They’ve done plenty of cuddling and plenty of Golden Girls marathons, but this time it’s different. The whole atmosphere has shifted somehow with no masks. He feels – more relaxed, less braced for bad, and if Spidey’s open face and slouched posture’s anything to go by, he feels it too. When Spidey finally webs that innocuous little package into his hands that contains the entirety of a life inside it, Wade doesn’t even feel nervous about it. Spidey wants to stay. Maybe Wade can even let himself believe it. He digs through the papers, glances over them, then pulls out the phone and fiddles around with it, gets it set up. Then without warning, Spidey tosses it at Wade’s head.

He catches it in the nick of time. “Did Weas get the wrong one or something? Geez, warn a –”

“Give me your number,” Spidey says.

“– oh. Oh! Hey, Spidey?” Wade immediately saves his number into the phone.

“Yeah?”

“I just met you.”

“… What?”

“And this is crazy.”

“What’s crazy?”

“But here’s my number.” Wade grins, tosses the phone back. “So call me maybe?”

Spidey eyes him, then eyes the phone. “You want me to call you right now?”

Wade lasts one whole second in the face of Spidey’s dubious confusion. He makes it one literal second. Then he cracks, laughing so hard his sides split, the kind of knee-slapping laugh that’s so out of control it’s contagious, even for people who have no idea what’s even funny in the first place. Spidey’s lips turn up watching him laugh, and then they’re both laughing. They laugh until Wade forgets what started it, then Spidey sees what Wade saved himself as in his phone and they’re rolling all over again. Spidey webs Wade’s burner phone toward him, but Wade’s in between him and the phone and swipes it out of the air before it can sail past him. He holds it out of reach when Spidey makes a pass for it, and then they’re wrestling on the couch for the phone, all playful swipes and tickling hands. Spidey finally lets his spider legs join the fray, and it takes all of three seconds to wrestle Wade still and pull the phone from his lax grip. Spidey doesn’t go to fiddle with it, though. They’re both breathless, grinning, Spidey’s weight pressing him into couch cushions, straddling him with his spider legs holding him in place.

And Wade – he’s a little shit, okay. Spidey’s breathing hard above him, black eyes reflecting his own happiness right back into his face, his knees are hugging his hips and there isn’t enough space in between them. Nobody else would have been able to resist.

Wade cranes his neck, leans up, and kisses him.

And Spidey – Spidey doesn’t hesitate. This kiss is as instantly demanding as their first. Spidey presses into him, drops the phone somewhere and slackens his hold so that Wade can bring one hand up to card through Spidey’s hair, give a little tug. Spidey moans into his mouth. It’s all different now. Spidey has options, and he’s choosing Wade. _He’s choosing Wade_. Wade doesn’t have to stop and ask if this is okay, doesn’t have to wonder if Spidey’s doing this because he thinks he owes him. Spidey leans into the kiss like he can’t get enough. Wade’s whole face is tingling after five minutes with Spidey’s tongue down his throat, the effects of his saliva going straight to Wade Jr. Spidey grinds down on him and they groan in unison, warm breaths mingling.

“’s this okay?” Spidey whispers into his mouth. He rubs his nose against Wade’s. “Pool?”

Wade whimpers. Words won’t even come, he can’t even think, doesn’t want to think.

“Wade?”

It’s the first time Spidey’s ever said his real name. Wade whines, thrusts upward.

“Fuck, yes, yes, it’s – you’re beautiful, Spidey, baby boy, don’t stop,” and then because he’s still got at least a little bit of brain power left, he adds an insistent, “Unless you want to stop. You can stop, but I’m – fuck, do that again, no, wait, you can stop, d’you want to –”

“No.” Spidey nips at him with his fangs, a graze that shoots right through him, a zinging tingling sensation at his lips. “I don’t want either of us to wonder about it anymore. You – you want me,” Spidey breaks off his words to dive into another kiss, all tongue and wet heat and warmth. Wade takes Spidey’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on it, nips at it with all too-human teeth, as if in affirmation. He thrusts up again, no thought behind it, a reflex, a feverish want. Spidey grinds his own erection into Wade’s and says through a slow grin. “I definitely want you. Let’s – the –” They kiss some more, then Spidey’s black long spider legs grip him tight on all sides and they’re standing from the couch, lip-locked and consumed. Spidey wraps his human legs around Wade’s waist and they’re making out all the way to the bedroom, knocking into walls along the way. Wade kicks the door open and they fall into their unmade bed, kissing and breathless and laughing and _wanting_.

At some point Spider comes up for air, black eyes fixed on Wade’s. “You really don’t think I’m gross?” he checks.

Wade huffs out a laugh, leans up to peck him on the forehead. “Not even a tiny little bit. You don’t think _I’m_ gross? Because I’m actually gross, so it’s –”

One of Spidey’s black legs whaps him over the head. Wade is maybe a little more turned on by that than he should have been. “Not even a tiny little bit,” Spidey repeats his words right back to him, earnest and open and tangled into him, all long limbs and hard muscles. And Wade – Wade remembers how it feels to be with someone who thinks he’s gross, to be with someone who’s faking it. Spidey leans into him, watches him, chases his mouth with his own, whines into him every time their erections touch. Even more amazing than having someone want him? Than having _Spidey_ want him, who’s absolutely beautiful and ripped and sweet and just _way out of Deadpool’s league_?

What’s even more amazing is that Wade – Wade _believes him_.

They don’t leave the bed that day.

-

-

-

It’s nighttime, now, and Spidey’s sleeping the sleep of champions. Wade presses a kiss to his tangled brown curls and gathers up their laundry, heads to the laundromat a few blocks away with it all. They’re both running out of clean clothes, and he wants to get it done while Spidey’s sleeping so they can spend their waking hours together. Besides, he’s got too much energy to sleep, too keyed up from the emotions of the day, too relaxed from the release. It’s a weird mix. Wade dons the sunglasses and hoodie, marveling that he doesn’t feel the same itch to cover every square inch of himself that he usually does, marveling that it only took one maskless day in Spidey’s presence to feel less disgusting in his own skin. He almost forgets his gloves until he happens to see them on his way out. White and Yellow haven’t said a word all day. Even now that he’s alone, they feel distant, like an itch in the back of his head, there but not there.

Wade’s got their laundry slung over his shoulder as he walks down the darkened streets.

He’s humming.

The few people ambling along give him a wide berth, because he’s a big broad-shouldered dude in a hoodie walking around at night, and that’s smart. Good for them. No, seriously, nothing can get in the way of the mother of all good moods he’s sporting right now, Francis himself could pop out of the grave and Wade would very happily shoot him in the face again, it wouldn’t even be a big deal –

A shooting star streaks into the night sky, then. Wade watches it, thinking about how there’s nothing he wants to wish for, nothing he doesn’t already have.

[[Why can we see that star?]]

“Yellow! You’re back!” Wade pauses, head tilted toward the sky. “Why am I happy about that? Oh well, welcome back loser –”

[Is that star coming toward us?]

“White! You guys have to hear about what happened to me today, it was magical – wait,” Wade squints up at the sky. That star does appear to be getting – and now that he’s wondering about it, he can hear the telltale whirr of a jet, only it’s not a jet, it’s too small to be – shit, that’s not a jet, that’s –

Iron Man.

“Shit!” Wade doesn’t bother running. How lame would that have looked? He’s got a reputation to protect, here. “I don’t have any weapons,” he hisses at the boxes, hand tightening around the sack of dirty laundry.

[[Chuck a pair of cummy boxers at him!]]

[Good idea, Iron Man would _die_ –]

[[I mean your dirty laundry is considered a weapon in at least three separate countries.]]

Iron Man’s whirring jets streak above him, stopping bystanders in their tracks. People are pointing their phones at them and backing away as Iron Man swoops right over him and hovers in the air, red and gold suit of armor gleaming under the light of a nearby streetlight. Wade waves with his free hand, neck craning up to get a good look. His hoodie falls away.

“Iron Man! Don’t tell me you’re here for little ol’ meeeeeee –” His last word turns into a shrill, unmanly shriek as Iron Man swoops street level, an armored hand grabs him by his shirt collar, and then the jets fire and he’s streaking off into the sky with Wade screaming and flailing in his grip. Wade lets go of their bag of laundry a few hundred feet in the air and articles of soiled clothing rain on the streets below.

[[I’m gonna be sick!]]

[AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH –]

His screams, much like White’s, echo across the New York skyline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this sucks, but I'm sure that's just the crippling depression talking. One chapter to go!


	10. Spider-Man

10\. Spider-Man

-

-

-

Spidey’s eyes snap open.

He’s launching himself to the ceiling before he’s fully even awake, hairs on end, heart trilling. He crawls across the ceiling and down the wall, uses his spider legs to wrench open the bedroom window and peer out into the dark alleyway below. The city never sleeps, but it’s usually in the background, all muffled traffic that rushes ever onward and intermingled people talking, yelling, singing, laughing. But something’s wrong. It feels – strange. Far away. A sense telling him to leave, guiding him away from the condo. He doesn’t need to check to know that Wade’s gone. The danger is distant, so Wade’s distant. He’s in trouble. There’s – no, there. Spidey takes a deep breath to think through every thrumming cell in his body telling him to leave immediately, manages to pull on the clothes from the floor and his mask before obeying. A line of webbing catches onto the adjacent roof and he’s leaping out of the window, swinging into the night.

This is – unprecedented.

His danger sense hasn’t ever pinged for somebody else before. In Weapon X, it was a constant buzz in the back of his brain, a constant livewire that kept him hypervigilant, kept him from ever relaxing enough to sleep deeply. He crashes hard now that he lives with Deadpool, who’s never been anything _but_ safety, but for so long it’s always been there, that persistent itch that he’s unsafe, that migraine-inducing, heart-jumping sense that something’s wrong. Spidey didn’t know he could sense when _other_ people were in danger, but here he is swinging through New York City following the tinglies anyway.

And it’s – he should be taking this more seriously. Deadpool’s somehow gotten himself into enough danger to trigger his sixth sense in the middle of a dead sleep. He feels – he _knows_ he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to Deadpool. But right now?

Spidey feels – _free_.

Hurling himself between skyscrapers, the rush of the wind and the sounds and the adrenaline as he releases a web and freefalls before letting loose the next one, that low swoop where gravity tries and fails to take over… it’s _amazing_. For once he isn’t trying for stealth. For once he isn’t worried about who sees him. For once he’s not on the way to kill somebody or steal something or wreck things. On the other end of these swings is someone to _save_. Up here in the air, he’s suddenly more than a Weapon X minion, suddenly more than broken or damaged or freakishly mutated. He’s more than the past 14 years, more than what they made him. He’s – he’s free to just – he’s just – he can be –

Spider-Man.

-

-

-

Deadpool’s whole MO tends toward acting without thinking first.

So, naturally, as he’s being flown hundreds of feet above New York in literally nothing more than the grip of a robot hand, Deadpool flails around like a fish out a water and, oh yeah, also manages to remove his sunglasses from his face and promptly jab it into said robot’s nearest opening, which so happens to be the seam between the leg and the torso. He sticks it so far in that Iron Man lists to the right and one of those foot jets sputters mid-flight.

“Son of a –” Iron Man’s grip slackens.

And Deadpool is suddenly freeballing it through open skies.

[Free FALLING, asshole!]

[[No, no, nope, pretty sure we’re freeballing it too. Feel all that wind??]]

[These pants are surprisingly thin. Also, AAAHHHHHHH.]

[[We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die! Not that we’re capable of dying, but this shit’s about to HURT.]]

“This is why our writers should have given us the power of flight!”

He’s pretty sure he didn’t have a plan here besides get Iron Man to let him go. But this wouldn’t be the worst way he’s ever died before, and the wind feels nice, like a full-body massage – oh shit here comes the splat –

More rushing wind, those jets whirring overhead, then suddenly mere feet from splatting onto the top of a building, Iron Man swoops down and grabs him by one of his feet, jetting off into the sky once again, only this time Deadpool is dangling upside down and he’s suddenly one hundred percent sure he’s not going to be holding down his lunch for much longer. The heat from those jet boots get a little too close to Deadpool’s head for comfort, and he wiggles his body, trying to sway away from them. As soon as Iron Man releases him minutes later a few feet off the ground, lets his body thump hard onto grassy terrain, Deadpool eats dirt, raises his head away from said dirt, and then promptly hurls chunks into said dirt. Gagging until he’s dry heaving, he scoots away from the congealing, rancid mess until he’s downwind from it, dry heaves some more until his stomach settles. Finally, Deadpool manages to sit up and look toward Iron Man, who’s standing a few feet away with a repulsor aimed at Deadpool’s face and those unimpressed, narrowed robot eyes staring him down. His sunglasses are in a mangled broken heap in the grass beside him.

[[Fucking A, I liked that pair!]]

Holding his fragile stomach with both arms wrapped around himself, Deadpool says, “Um, hi? I come in peace? The kumbaya kind of peace, not the kind that ends with body parts strewn all over this frankly well-manicured lawn. I am seriously not in the right frame of mind for a dismemberment right now, or a face-flaying, so if you could just lower the jazz hand, that’d be swell –”

“Here’s the dilemma,” Iron Man says.

“Is it that you’re a giant dick who just flew me clear across the city, and now I’m gonna have to buy a whole new wardrobe since all our clothes are somewhere in the wind?” Deadpool thinks about it for a second, switches gears. “Actually, now I don’t have to do laundry _and_ I get to play dress up with a whole new set of –”

“The dilemma –”

“– dresses, so thanks, Iron Dick, you just saved me six bucks at the laundromat –”

Iron Man’s repulsor blasts a hole in the grass inches away from Deadpool’s left foot.

Deadpool gulps. “Well that was excessive.”

“The dilemma,” he says again, and there’s no mistaking the annoyance in that robotic, grainy voice. “is that you’re a homicidal maniac who can’t die, and locking you up somehow never sticks.”

“It’s hard to find quality jailors these days.”

Iron Man’s repulsor hand twitches, and Deadpool clamps his lips shut and mimes zipping them and throwing away the key. He wishes he had his fucking mask right now. It’s not right being all exposed in front of the rich and famous, but also his wide eyes would look way more comical if they were the white panda eyes instead. “I’ve also been informed by multiple sources that it’d be inhumane to keep you in any sort of suspended near-death state. So what the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

Deadpool can’t help but laugh. “In another life I’d be suggesting _loads_ of things you could do with me, Mr. Billionaire Playboy, including but not limited to threesomes with various other super people on the payroll, but see, I’m kinda in an unspecified yet totally satisfying romantic entanglement with a really fucking sweet spider who kinda digs me for some reason, so –”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“I’ve been informed by multiple sources that I do not.”

Iron Dick’s helmet is the least expressive thing Deadpool’s ever come across. Just as well, really, since the man inside expresses extreme irritation perfectly fine through voice alone. “I literally don’t know what to do with you besides kill you a bunch of times, which, tempting –”

“Rude!”

“– but I’m not exactly looking forward to murdering someone repeatedly.”

“Really? ‘Cuz if it’s the right person, that actually sounds fun –”

Iron Man charges toward him so abruptly that Deadpool doesn’t even have time to scooch away on his tush in the grass before he’s been grabbed by his shirt collar again and hauled upward. He squeaks as his face is brought close to the armored helmet and he’s shaken, feet dangling an inch off the ground. “Why are you acting like this is all one big joke? Do I look like I’m joking right now? I’m skating way past annoyed that I even have to deal with you at all, do you have any idea how close you’re coming to being kept in a constant state of near-death, moral compunctions be damned –”

“A constant state of near-death could be the name of my autobiography.”

“You blew up Long Island.” Iron Man shakes him again. “Was that a joke to you, too?”

Deadpool totally had a rebuttal for that. Something clever and witty and funny as hell, as a matter of fact. But whatever it was, it flies right out of his brain the moment he catches sight of the tree line behind Iron Man. More specifically, he catches sight of the crouching shadow perched on a branch of one of the trees. While he’d been dangling mid-air upside down, he’d seen the sudden barrage of trees that gave way to what could only be the much-talked-about highly-anticipated Avengers Compound. Iron Man dropped him directly on the grass closest those trees, as far away from the concrete of civilization as he could have without having dropped him straight into the woods. But he hadn’t seen that shadowy figure until just this moment. His heart jumps into his throat, all his jokes drying straight up, because who cares if Iron Man kills Deadpool? He can’t stay dead. But – but Spidey –

[[How the fuck did he find us?]]

[He was sleeping! He’s supposed to be sleeping!]

He’s absolutely _not_ sleeping. It’s Spidey crouched there in that tree, his silhouette unmistakable, and now that he’s looking he can make out every detail, how Spidey’s got his mask on, how he isn’t wearing any shoes, his bare toes sticking to the bark of the tree, how he seems to see Wade looking and straight-up winks at him – shit this isn’t going to go well –

Things move in hyper speed after that. Iron Man doesn’t much care for Deadpool’s sudden silence. His other gauntlet raises, aimed at Deadpool’s head. Deadpool ignores it because he’s busy trying to signal Spidey away with his eyes, raising his nonexistent eyebrows up and down and frantically moving his eyes to the left, to the left, get outa here dude, to the left. Iron Man freezes to ask what was wrong with Deadpool’s face, but his gauntlet is still aimed, and Spidey doesn’t get any of Wade’s subtle hints to leave because he raises one hand of his own and lets webs fly. A glob of white sticks onto Iron Man’s gauntlet, and then Deadpool is being thrown down because Iron Man clearly has bigger fish to fry. The armor turns just in time to see Spidey leap toward him with all his legs out. Iron Man braces, but the impact of the leaping spider digs Iron Man’s boots into the dirt, sends him backward a couple feet. Deadpool rolls out of the way and springs to his feet, weaponless but unwilling to let Spidey fight this fight alone.

“What the hell are you?” Iron Man’s hands scramble to get Spidey to let go, punching him to try and get him off, but Spidey bares the hits in silence and digs those spider legs into the armor. He manages to pierce clear through the armor with the tips of his legs and Iron Man curses, jets fire, he lifts into the air in an ungraceful, faltering hover, trying to use the skies to shake Spidey off.

On the ground below, Deadpool hoots and hollers, cheers Spidey on.

They grapple in the air, but it’s clear that Deadpool needn’t have worried, because Spidey’s a fucking grade A boss who don’t need no man. With all four spider legs sticking inside the armor, Spidey takes one hand and plasters it against Iron Man’s faceplate. In one harsh tug, he rips the faceplate off and tosses it into the trees. Tony Stark stares wide-eyed at the spider clinging to him, but only for a second before he realizes the position he’s in, how close he is to an unknown attacker. A plate lifts on his shoulder, little baby missiles raise, and before Wade can blink those missiles are firing into Spidey, rocking the ground below with the accompanying booms. Iron Man and Spidey are hurled in opposite directions in the explosion, Spidey thrown into the trees and Iron Man falling so hard in the grass that the armor creates a small smoking crater around it. Wade hears tree limbs falling and another hard crash from Spidey’s direction.

[SPIDEY]

[[IF HE’S DEAD I’M KILLING THE ENTIRE MARVEL UNIVERSE]]

Wade takes off into the trees, yelling Spidey’s name.

He skids to a stop, though, when Spidey suddenly swings by on a web overhead.

“’m fine, Pool!” he calls as he goes.

Deadpool catcalls because what else is he supposed to do with Spidey’s delectable little derriere swinging by all spry and agile, like he wasn’t just exploded with Stark tech missiles. “Hell yes you are, baby boy!”

[I’m DEAD. I’m DYING. SPIDEY IS GOING TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK.]

[[I’m in love. Oh God our boy is a BAMF!]]

Wade breaks a branch off the nearest tree and stomps back to the fray. But Iron Man isn’t playing around; repulsor blasts fire one after another into the trees. The heat from one grazes Wade’s ear and he hurls himself into a dive to avoid it, landing straight into a thorn bush. He uses his branch-weapon to hack away at the tangle of vines, coming up cussing. By the time Wade finally makes it back to the tree line, he’s covered in prickling thorns and Iron Man’s shooting off blast after blast, Spidey swinging and flipping this way and that to avoid them. Wade plants his boots into the ground, winds his arm back, takes brief aim, then spears the branch toward Iron Man’s face. It hits dead center in the middle of the billionaire’s exposed forehead, rocks him backward with a groan half-pained half-disbelieving. Spidey uses his distraction to shoot a whole volley of webs that stick Iron Man rather solidly to the ground, spider crawling over to him and baring down on the bound armor with all his body weight.

Wade runs the rest of the way over to them, hands on his knees, panting out a quick, grinning, “Go team!”

“Seriously?” Stark’s got blood at his hairline, a dark raised knot like a unicorn’s horn on his forehead. He’s gritting his teeth. The armor strains, bucking, but Spidey legit hisses and clamps all four spider legs into the armor again, holding it in place.

“I think I’m in love,” Wade breathes out, a little starstruck, a whole lot aroused.

Spidey’s head tilts toward him then quickly back to Stark.

“You’re one of Earth’s heroes,” Spidey says.

Iron Man wiggles. “And you’re a thing from literal nightmares, what the fuck –”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Spidey says.

“Oh good. That’s great. Jarv, why the hell hasn’t Veronica deployed yet –”

“She seems to be experiencing technical difficulties, sir.”

Iron Man’s head thumps back into the grass. He stares up at the sky. “So what’re we working with here? You a villain?”

“I’m with Deadpool.”

“So, villain.”

Wade leans forward and sticks his tongue out at the man, sheer undeniable happiness curling up inside him at Spidey’s easy unhesitating possessiveness. This is literally the best day ever, way better than doing laundry, way better than any of the best days with Vanessa, better than the day he’d finally killed Francis, shit, better than the day he got his hands on his beloved katanas. It’s hot as hell watching Spidey strongarm an Avenger. Spidey leans his face close to Tony Stark’s and tilts his head as though searching for something. And when he speaks, the serious tone with that all-too earnest, all-too open honesty makes Wade want to jump him right there right then atop Iron Man and everything. Spidey speaks with calm certainty, just calmly factual when he says, “I don’t want to kill you, but if you come after Deadpool again, I will.”

“Yep,” Wade whispers, reverent. “Definitely in love.”

“Do you know what you’re protecting, Itsy Bitsy?” Stark’s eyebrows are both raised, brown eyes wide and disbelieving. “Do you even know why a superhero might be trying to stop him? What he’s done? Recently, in fact. And who even are you, Aragog’s illegitimate love child –”

Suddenly, a bright red laser shoots from under the webbing, slicing through it and singing one of Spidey’s legs. He hisses and leaps away, landing on Wade as Iron Man breaks free. They’re all a little banged up and Iron Man is no exception, though, and when he hovers in the air loose webs trail off him, stuck like glue to the armor, and one of his thrusters is on the fritz, jet misfiring so that he’s holding himself in the air with the power of one functioning gauntlet and one boot.

Spidey and Wade both scramble to a stand. Spidey wraps one arm around Wade’s middle.

“I’m protecting somebody who saved me,” Spidey calls up to the hovering tin can. Wade wraps his arms around Spidey, too, tightening his hold and sighing again like a lovestruck idiot. “I’ve heard you’re good at hacking things… do yourself a favor and look up Weapon X. I’m sure you can connect all the dots yourself.”

Wade whoops out loud as Spidey thwips out a web and swings them both into the night through the trees and back toward the cityscape.

Iron Man watches them until they’re out of sight.

Then, aggravated, he flies his damaged suit into the compound and does himself a favor.

-

-

-

Back in the condo, Wade can’t seem to stop laughing his ass off.

“You just – it was just – and no shoes!” Wade’s breathless. Tears leak from his eyes. He swipes at them with the back of his sleeve so he can see well enough to keep patching up the bloody mess on Spidey’s shoulder where he’d been hit with those missiles the hardest. Spidey seems to have a healing factor that’s nowhere near Deadpool levels, because even though it looks like any other normal person would have been knocked clean out from the hit, the cuts are still bleeding, a small chunk of skin missing from the shoulder. Spidey assured him it’d heal in time. Just way more time than Wade’s exactly comfortable with. He dabs some antiseptic into it and keeps his mind on the real prize instead. Spidey doesn’t even flinch as it’s applied. “You showed up to a gun fight with the Iron Dick himself without any shoes! It was just – amazing! All thwip thwip pew pew, oh my God, what a night! Did you see his _face_? He looked like a fancy unicorn! Or a grumpy narwhal! This is definitely going into my next fanfic –”

Spidey grabs for the roll of bandages with his free hand, gives it a little shake in Wade’s face.

“Do you think he’ll stop coming after you now?”

Wade tears some of the bandages off with his teeth, goes to work wrapping up Spidey’s shoulder until it resembles a mummy. “Hah! I doubt it. Not that you didn’t do a great job kicking ass and taking names, baby boy,” Wade’s quick to assure. “But srsly, I’ve done a lot of bad shit. Those hero types tend to blame me for _everything_.”

“Have they ever blamed you for something you didn’t do?”

“… Objection! Irrelevant!”

“Sustained,” Spidey deadpans.

After they shower (separately, because the shower is small and because Wade’s skin is acting up and apparently Spidey is somehow even _more_ badass than Wade ever could have imagined, the mental images from tonight alone will sustain him forever, it’s not even an exaggeration), Wade and Spidey end up in bed, a little too beat up to do anything more than cuddle, which is honestly perfect anyway. Spidey’s head is pillowed on Wade’s chest, one hand under Wade’s shirt to run his fingers over the bumps and ridges of Wade’s scars. He tries not to feel insecure about it. It helps to remember all the things Spidey said about him to Iron Dick, helps knowing that Spidey came for him. Speaking of… Wade asks about it in the dark warmth of the bedroom. Spidey is cool to the touch and his limbs feel like soothing ice packs against his skin, all tangled limbs. He’s quick to admit that he can sense danger, even quicker to poke his head up from Wade’s chest and admit that he had no idea he could sense danger from such a distance or in a dead sleep, but that he’s not about to complain.

“It actually…” Spidey hesitates, one fang poking out behind pursed lips.

Wade hums, hand loosely running down Spidey’s bare back.

Spidey’s eyes glance away. “It actually felt – right. Coming after you like that. Saving somebody. I think I might want to do it again?”

“I mean, no complaints here.” Wade smacks a kiss onto Spidey’s turned cheek, making him look back at him. He grins at those bottomless black eyes and puffs out his chest a bit, tries to strike a pose where he’s lying. “I volunteer as tribute to be your damsel any day of the week. Although I feel like next time I should be wearing a wig –”

“Not that,” Spidey huffs, ducks his head back into Wade’s chest. “I mean, I’ll save you whenever you need saving, but I meant – I kind of want to save other people, too? I was thinking, maybe… I mean, Weapon X won’t be around forever. After we find them all, maybe I could give saving people a try.”

“Like, join the superhero team?”

“Um, no. Definitely no teams. Just – by myself. Or maybe even – if you want? With you?”

Wade starts to laugh, but shit, Spidey looks serious. Earnest. It twists something in Wade’s chest. Does Spidey honestly think that Wade could be – what? A hero? It’s not possible. Deadpool isn’t a hero. As evidenced by literally tonight, he’s something heroes fight. He’s something heroes try to put down. A thorn in their side, an unkillable thorn that keeps popping up, like surprise zits on prom night.

“You saved me,” Spidey stresses. His head tilts. “You’re already _my_ hero. You could be that to other people, too. Easy.”

[[Aw, my sweet summer child.]]

[It’s like he doesn’t know you at all.]

But the thought’s there, now. Wade finds himself thinking about the idea. In the face of Spidey’s hope, how could he not? Wade could – well, if Spidey thinks he can, he totally could save some people. He’s saved people before. Granted, he only ever saves people after killing their captors or kidnappers or rapists. Superheroes don’t kill on the regular. Sure, they all killed people before, but the whole hero thing sort of insists that people can always be saved, doesn’t it? Didn’t they capture that God-like alien Loki instead of kill him, back when he brought an alien army to enslave the earth? Deadpool would have _for sure_ killed that guy. He doesn’t think he has the moral compass necessary to be a hero. Even if he thinks about it _really hard_ , he still believes people who hurt kids, rapists, terrorists… he still thinks killing them is the only way to go. Deadpool’s a bad guy himself. He knows firsthand that sometimes the only way to stop a bad guy is to unalive the shit out of them. Hell, his inability to die is the only reason the superhero squad hasn’t been able to stop _him_.

But shit, isn’t this what he was thinking way back before he even met Spidey?

That he’s got all the time in the world and nothing to do with it?

He could – Wade could save people.

He could… well, why not? If Spidey wants to use his powers for good, then maybe Wade could, too. _Especially_ if Spidey keeps looking at him like this. Like he’s worth something. Like he’s a hero already. Like he’s actually capable of doing real good. Has anybody ever looked at Deadpool like that before?

[Resounding no, bro.]

[[Spidey’s cute and all, but he sure can be naïve.]]

Spidey’s yawn cuts through all the noise in his head. He burrows back into the bed, into Wade, and murmurs a soft, tired, “Just think about it. ‘m tired.”

It’s honestly adorable how Spidey can fall asleep so instantaneously. A little alarming, but mostly adorable. Wade’s got no clue how Spidey can drop a bomb like that and then just nod off into dreamland. Wade sure as shit can’t. His brain won’t settle down.

Instead, Wade finds himself doing exactly what Spidey said, for hours and hours in bed.

He thinks about it.

-

-

-

The news drops two days later.

National headlines that, for a while, drown out all the SHIELD drama that crashed the interwebs originally. An evil underground terrorist group uncovered in Long Island: how the heroes saved the day! Mercenary known as Deadpool singlehandedly dismantles grotesque illegal human experimentation group known as Weapon X. Missing persons cases solved: how people gone missing were taken and tortured. Blah blah blah, report after report, channel after channel. It’s everywhere. Suddenly, Deadpool’s gone from wanted man to hailed a hero, the crater in Long Island sectioned off for evidence against Weapon X instead of evidence against him. Wade’s incapable of even speaking in the face of it all, jaw dropped dramatically as he flicks through news coverage after news coverage.

Spidey nudges him, grinning as he munches on dry cereal. “I hear Deadpool’s a hero now.”

“Uh-huh,” Wade’s voice is faint. He feels faint. Is this even real life –

The real kicker comes in the form of a text message from an unknown number.

_2:21 P.M._

_Weapon X is barbaric, and I guess their hideout should have been blown up._

_2:21 P.M._

_But stop killing people. One chance, Wilson. Cease and desist._

_Tell your spider guy we’re square._

_2:23 P.M._

_But he owes me a rematch._

-

-

-

He and Spidey walk to the nearest field of green that’s been cut out of the cityscape, just walk around looking at artificially planted trees and shit. At first, Spidey walked with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward, looking a little bit like a suspicious hoodlum up to no good, but his masked face glances this way and that, taking in the scenery like a starving man inhales tacos. Wade does most of the talking, surprising no one, but he can’t help but focus less on whatever random shit he’s saying and more on Spidey, who seems to grow less nervous the longer they walk. He’s not used to existing in the world around other people, still not entirely comfortable in public. But he finally lets loose enough to cartwheel a few times in the grass, put on a bit of a show for a couple passing, enraptured kids and their unwitting parents. What started out as a single cartwheel turns into Spidey removing his shoes and contorting his body in a truly dazzling display of gymnastics feats, all barefoot and springy. One man even leaves a few crumpled bills in Spidey’s shoes before his final curtain call. It’s a good day.

Mid-flip, Spidey suddenly twirls out of the handstand and crouches in the grass, head tilted.

“Is Timmy down the well?” Wade comes up beside him, knowing that look.

Spidey springs to a stand. “I heard a gunshot. Race you?”

Before Wade can respond, he’s taking a running leap out of the park, webs thwipping onto the nearest building as he swings into the distance. Wade grabs Spidey’s discarded shoes, shaking his head and pocketing the cash out of them. It’s a good thing Wade grew up parkouring. And here his parents thought it was a useless skill. It’s also a good thing that Wade goes nowhere without at least three weapons squirreled away, especially whenever he’s out with Spidey. The dude can’t go ten minutes without racing away to one crime scene or another.

[Think we’ll ever beat him?]

[[HAHAHA.]]

[… and that’s a no.]

“Thank you for your patronage, good citizens!” Deadpool high fives the nearest kid, who’s pouting about Spidey having jumped ship mid-performance. He salutes the gaping adults. Then he takes a deep breath, cracks his neck, and gives chase.

[Spider-Man, Spider-Man, does whatever a spider can!

Spins a web any size, catches thieves just like flies

Look out, here comes the Spider-Man!

Is he strong? Listen bud, he's got radioactive blood

Can he swing from a thread? Take a look overhead…]  
  


[[Hey, there! There goes the Spider-Man!🎶🎶]]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I might add a smutty epilogue one of these days, but you know how that goes. Gotta be in the mood to write smut...
> 
> Big thank you to my commenters and kudo-people, you guys definitely inspired me to finish this thing. Special thanks to Red for being a badass commenter/encourager. I'm gonna miss this story, but I'm excited to get back to my other one. It needs some love too. 
> 
> Love you guys! Stay sane out there! <3


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